


Fwsshhh! Or: The Spray Of Truth

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bisexual Greg Lestrade, Bisexual John Watson, Crack, Don't Like Don't Read, Dubious Morality, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Fix-It, Homophobia, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mean Sherlock Holmes, Meddling Sherlock Holmes, Minor Character Death, No Eurus Holmes, No Mary Morstan, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Poor Mycroft, Rape/Non-con Elements, Science Experiments, Scientist Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, Sort Of, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-02 03:56:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19433431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock has invented a glorious substance and he plays with it eagerly. And then he uses it on his brother and things get tricky.





	1. A Funny Invention

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't want to post an unfinished story again but hell, I just had to start. Perhaps your comments will spark some ideas! :) Updates will be rather slow I guess. Hopefully it will be fun to read!

At first, he was fist-pumping the air, of course he was! This was brilliant! This was extraordinary, even for a genius like him! This was groundbreaking!

And then Sherlock frowned. This would be the end of his career as a consulting detective. Nobody would need him anymore if this was produced for the masses, or even just the police, at least as soon as they had a suspect.

Damn… He would get _so rich_ if he sold this – and then bored to death because he couldn’t solve cases anymore! And it wasn't as if he really needed the money. With his thirtieth birthday and staying sober for the required two years (and God how much he had hated being poked with needles all the time, under the suspicious glances of his hatefully perfect brother above all!), he had finally got access to his grandmother's trust. He was a very wealthy man now, so no actual need to sell his brilliant formula.

Not that he had told anyone how rich he was. Well, apart from his parents who lived far away, Mycroft did know it too of course but he had nodded with an exasperated eye-roll – and wasn't that the most hateful expression on his brother's face?! – but he had promised to keep silent about Sherlock's wealth in this horribly smug tone of his. Sherlock had thanked him through gritted teeth. He just didn’t want everyone coming to him, begging for money! And he didn’t want to tell even John, who would not want anything from him but who would possibly move in with some silly girlfriend or other if he knew that Sherlock was very well capable of paying the rent on his own now or even buy a few houses if he was so inclined. He wasn't in love with John or anything but he was so useful, and Sherlock had grown to really like him, and he simply didn’t want to live in Baker Street alone. And what would he do with a house? And would Mrs Hudson come with him as his housekeeper? Probably not, and he didn’t want anyone else to rummage through his belongings!

He didn’t really care about the money; that was the bottom line.

But this invention was too good to just ignore it! He had to put it to good use! Oh, this would be so much fun!

He used the spray again for good measure. John was just talking about meeting up with Lestrade in a pub and then he said, “And damn, I'd like to fuck him.” He blinked rapidly before going on with his story as if nothing had happened.

Sherlock, hiding the small can in his thankfully big hand, snickered. This spray was just awesome! Forcing people to speak out what they were really thinking! And the best thing was, they didn’t remember saying it afterwards! The few seconds during which the spray had worked had completely slipped from John's mind!

He stilled when an idea hit him – perhaps he could ask them actual questions they had to answer honestly? The tricky thing was that he didn't know if they would remember said question afterwards. He shrugged. No other way than to experiment on it, was there? Perhaps if he used it right before asking and once again immediately after the question?

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Do you think Lestrade has a big dick?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Nah, doesn’t look like so he'd have to be on bottom.” Sherlock burst out laughing and John gave him a confused look. “What's so funny about the music in the pub?”

 _Yessss!_ “Oh, just had to think of something. Go on! Your story is fascinating!” _As fascinating as your denial of being interested in men, you closed-up little bigot…_

John gave him a very doubtful look but then he kept on talking. Sherlock put him on mute to dwell on his brilliance and to muse about who would be his next victim. The only problem was that he of course could only use the spray when nobody else was around or he would give his secret away… He scowled but there wasn't anything he could do about that. Nevertheless! This was going to be highly entertaining!

*****

“What do you make of this body?” Greg Lestrade asked.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder. They were alone. Well, they and the gruesome corpse on the pavement. The forensic team was busy about twenty metres away and John was talking into his phone, facing away from them.

So he dared pull out the spray. _Fwsshhh!_ “Do you find John hot?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Yes, who doesn’t! I'd love him to bend me over my desk and give it to me!”

Sherlock almost cracked up but he managed to control his reaction when Lestrade blinked.

“So? Any ideas?” he asked, having no idea that a few seconds of his life had slipped from his memory forever.

Of course Sherlock had ideas. He always had! And this spray had been his best one lately! He quickly told the DI about his deduction concerning the crime and then he said casually, “Never thought John was interested in men. You?”

“Huh?” Lestrade made big eyes.

“Yeah, says he desperately wants a piece of male arse for a change. Don't tell him I gave it away,” he added hastily. John would have his guts for garters, especially as of course Sherlock only knew about his fantasies because of the spray and probably John would strangle it out of him how he had come to this knowledge…

“No, never,” Lestrade said, sounding a bit distracted and dreamy.

Sherlock suppressed a satisfied grin. He didn’t care at all about John's love life of course, let alone about Lestrade's, but he would use them getting tactile with each other for testing his invention thoroughly on them. He assumed it would be more fun to ask about their sexual escapades than eliciting some dull secrets out of them. And it would mean John would be away more often which gave him more time to experiment without someone nagging about bad smells and tiny little explosions. John was a true borer sometimes, useful as he was at other times!

Making sure John was still busy and nobody was watching, he used the formula again after asking, “Do you find me hot, Gavin?”

“Yes, but you're too complicated for me and you'd probably bite off my dick just to see if that works…”

“Not much to bite off I guess,” Sherlock mumbled, feeling both flattered and insulted, and Greg, already back in the world of the living, narrowed his eyes.

“Sorry?”

“Oh, nothing. Just thinking loudly. Well then, I assume you don't need me anymore?” He had to work on the formula some more, making it work for longer than a few seconds.

“No, and thanks, Sherlock. That was great!” Lestrade beamed at him.

“Of course it was,” Sherlock retorted haughtily and turned to gather John and go back to Baker Street. Someone had to go shopping and it wouldn’t be him.

**Two Days Later**

“Hello, Mrs Hudson! Heading for the bridge club?” Sherlock gave his landlady a rather false smile. He would soon need tea and who would bring it if she went out!

“Yes, dear! Samantha's granddaughter had a baby and she wants to show us pictures! Oh, don't roll your eyes at me, Sherlock!”

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Do you love me, Mrs Hudson?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Oh yes, even though you're wrecking my last nerve!”

Sherlock grumbled something into his non-existent beard. He could have asked her that without spraying her first and would have got the same answer… “Thanks a lot…”

“What for, dear?” She was all confused big eyes.

“Nothing. Enjoy your boring afternoon with the awful baby pictures then!” Sounded like his idea of hell but to each their own.

She slapped his arm, and it actually hurt! “Ouch!” He rather theatrically rubbed the spot.

“Manners, Sherlock! Your mother really has a lot to answer for!”

“Yes, yes.” Sherlock turned without a word and climbed the stairs to his flat. John was out buying some boring present for his sister's birthday, probably booze. And Sherlock had got some eyeballs from Molly before and would experiment on them undisturbed now. He hadn't used the spray on her, knowing very well what she thought about him… Boring! All those people were so boring! No surprises at all! He had sprayed Sally Donovan and asked her if she still hated him so much as she hid it better now that Lestrade had seriously admonished her, and she had answered, _“I'd love to kick you to the moon, Freak!”_ Anderson had not surprised him either, telling him he felt so low and later cried into his pillow when Sherlock had mocked him. All those stupidly calculable people with their silly emotions! The only bright spot was that John would meet up with Lestrade in the evening – Sherlock couldn’t wait to interrogate him and he giggled in glee at the prospect.

And then he sighed when he heard the unmistakable noise of a doorknocker getting straightened. So much for undisturbed experimenting! But after all he hadn't used the spray on his brother yet; perhaps at least Mycroft was good for some unexpected revelations! Who knew, perhaps he was wearing hold-up stockings or edible string thongs under his bespoke suits or went to night clubs dressed like a woman like Uncle Rudy had done!

Mycroft entered the flat with long, self-confident steps as usual; Sherlock hadn't bothered locking the door.

“Brother!” he greeted the thin-haired string-puller with mock friendliness. “Let me guess – you've come here into my humble home to strengthen our brotherly bond!”

Mycroft stood, furrowing his brow in confusion, and then he looked down on the folder in his hand with a rather sheepish expression. The other hand was holding the inevitable umbrella. “Actually… There is a case I could use your help on.”

 _What a surprise…_ Sherlock sighed and got up. The spray was already in his hand, and he used it in the usual double way with perfected ease, asking, “Let me guess again – you could solve that yourself in half the time…”

“Of course I could,” answered Mycroft, even his brilliant mind helpless against the effect of the spray, “but if I didn’t give you cases, I would never see you outside Christmas and drug dens.”

“It's been ages since you had to pull me out of one!” Sherlock hissed and cursed himself when Mycroft looked at him rather disturbed.

“Sorry?” he said in a tone of deep suspicion, and Sherlock didn’t see any other way than using the spray again. So far he had not had time to find a way to make it work longer, and his brother, by far the smartest person he had used the stuff on, clearly wondered if he had lost a few seconds and why, and Sherlock hoped he would forget that when he repeated the process.

“Is it nice to see me?” he asked as he could as well use the opportunity.

“It's always nice to see you,” Mycroft answered in a very gentle voice that made Sherlock speechless for a moment, and that was obviously a good thing as Mycroft quickly shook his head and handed him the folder. “This is concerning an ex-agent, who we believe is…”

Sherlock blanked him out, still pondering about the strange tone of Mycroft's second answer. And actually the content of the first one. So his brother really bothered him with cases so they would meet? Sherlock had thought he did it to keep him occupied and therefore – hopefully – out of trouble. That might be a reason too but obviously his brother missed talking to him. Yes, he didn’t call or text Mycroft very often. Only if he needed his help, actually. And it was sort of cute that Mycroft brought him cases to connect with him; Sherlock had meant it as a joke when he had asked him if he was here to improve their relationship. And Mycroft hadn't agreed even though it was the case. Well, he had probably expected to be mocked even more…

“Are you actually listening to me?” Mycroft asked now, sounding like his usual obnoxious self.

“No. Do you have a lover?” Sherlock asked while attacking him with the can once more, having honestly no bloody idea where this question had come from. Hadn't he planned to question Mycroft about his underwear or cross-dressing, and would that have been any better?! What was wrong with him? The side-effects of getting a tiny part of the spray every time he used it, too? Did it make people mad if exposed to it too often? But then John would have already run amok in all probability…

“No. I can't have the man I love,” Mycroft answered promptly and in a tone full of resignation.

Oh, that was interesting! And slightly disturbing even though he couldn’t say why. Who could that be?! One of the sodding princes, whatever their names were? A boring minister with wife and kids? A priest? Well, only one way to find out!

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Who is it – the man you love?” _Fwsshhh!_ And before Mycroft even had the chance to answer, Sherlock had a fleeting premonition and wished he would have let it rest.

“You of course. It's always been you.”

And Sherlock fell back into his chair, speechless for once and yet not entirely surprised.


	2. Dealing With The Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have chapter 2 :) Due to time problems and general struggling with this rather unusual fic, please don't yell at me if the next chapter takes a while!

“So, this man lives here?”

Sherlock slowly turned to his flatmate, whom he had dragged here as soon as he had come back from doing shopping. “No, John. Nobody lives here. We've just come here to admire the house!”

“Dear God, calm down! It's hot!”

“So your brain has melted? Well, not much to melt if you ask me…”

John fumed. “Why are you so nasty?! You chose to take your brother's damn case! Wonder why, usually you refuse to help him and he comes to me with it! And then you solve it anyway behind his and my back…” he mused then. “You just pretend to hate him, don't you?”

Sherlock was close to smashing his fist into the doctor's face. Yes, yes! Or rather: no, he did not hate his brother. Never had. He was just an annoying, overprotective man who always wrecked his last nerve! And loved and desired him, apparently…

How was he supposed to live with this knowledge? He would probably have to _burn_ his mind palace to forget this particular bit of information! If he wanted to forget it, that is. Of course theoretically he could just ignore his brother's unbrotherly feelings. Mycroft had no idea he had given this secret away and Sherlock was sure he would never make a move on him. Unthinkable that the great Mycroft Holmes had any sentimental, let alone sexual feelings for anyone, and for Sherlock of all people! In addition to it being completely embarrassing for the Iceman, it was also forbidden!

But somehow… he couldn’t let it rest… He had been turning the information over and over in his head and he guessed it would follow him into his dreams tonight…

He had somehow managed to not give away what he had just heard and grumpily taken the case, which had surprised his brother to no end, and he had even smiled at Sherlock gratefully and thanked him! And Sherlock had smiled back a little shakily, feeling embarrassed among a million other things, but trying to hide it by saying he knew how much Mycroft despised legwork and enjoyed laziness, and Mycroft had thankfully left soon after, not even really scowling at his half-hearted snarky remarks.

So now, an hour later, here they were, Sherlock and John, trying to find the evidence for the ex-agent to have given away classified information to a public enemy in exchange for a meaningful sum of money.

“We should have come when it's dark,” John mumbled. “You know how to break in and we could have searched for the evidence when this guy's asleep.”

That was true but Sherlock had figured there was an easier way. “I thought you and Graham are about to meet later?” he asked innocently.

John blushed. “Yes, but… And it's _Greg_! Just going to the pub. Afterwards we could have come. _Come here_ I mean! You and me!” He appeared a bit defensive…

So he wasn't planning to get laid on the first date? Shame. Boring. “You stay here and make sure nobody comes in,” he said, focusing on the matter at hand.

“What? I never just stay outside like a watchdog!”

“This time you will.” And then Sherlock stalked to the front door and rang the doorbell after opening three buttons of his shirt.

“Are you mad?!” John hissed but he hovered down behind a bush.

Sherlock didn’t grace him with an answer, putting his cap further over his forehead, looking down so the camera couldn’t get his face.

He didn’t have to wait long. The door was opened up, and the young, gay ex-agent asked, “Yes? You got lost?”

And Sherlock made a step forward, sprayed his secret essence into his face while shielding his action with his back as well as he could and asked, “Where is the money you got from Mahimba Laboour?” and sprayed again while pushing the man into the house, and five minutes later, he left it with the statement of accounts of a bank on the Cayman Islands and the man's password for said account, leaving a sobbing and completely disturbed traitor behind.

“How did you do that so fast?!” John demanded to know while brushing the dirt from his knees.

Sherlock shrugged. “My overwhelming charm?”

Before John could answer (probably with some doubt in his voice) a man came to them. He was recognisable as a shady government worker from afar with his neat reddish hair and the cheap suit. His (black!) tie was so lopsided that Mycroft would have had a fit if he saw that…

“You've got it, Mr Holmes?” he snarled eagerly and a tad disbelievingly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My brother puts a lot of trust in me,” he mumbled, and blushed when the thought _'He would probably love to put something else into me'_ flashed through his mind _._ “I will hand it over personally if you don't mind,” he said haughtily. “Make sure the man doesn’t disappear to Brazil in the meantime.”

“Don't worry; we've got him under surveillance.”

Thank God they had obviously not seen the use of the spray… Sherlock assumed the government would love to get their dirty hands on his invention!

“Then why didn’t you figure it out yourself?” John asked the agent. “Why send _us_?”

Sherlock could have told him, but the man just shrugged. “We tried but he didn’t give anything away. How the hell did you do it?”

He and John looked at him expectantly but Sherlock made an imperious gesture with his hand and said, “A genius doesn't give his methods away. If you excuse us now…” And he stalked off, followed by John.

“You really want to meet your brother and give him the evidence? Without being forced?” The doctor's voice sounded tremendously disbelieving.

Sherlock sighed. “He said I should.”

“Since when…”

“Shut up, John.”

The doctor snorted but finally stopped pestering him, and Sherlock started to prepare mentally for meeting his brother.

*****

He could see at once that Mycroft had been told about the quick success of his mission.

Nonchalantly, he let the folder Mycroft had given him drop onto his desk – including the papers he had got from the stunned agent.

Mycroft, sitting in his chair with his long legs crossed, glanced at them with a still astonished look. "I must say this was exceptionally fast work, Sherlock. Thank you."

"Yeah, _'thank you in the name of the king'_ and so on."

"We have a queen in fact..."

Sherlock waved his unimportant piece of information away and sat down in the visitor's chair without having been invited to do so, positive that he could reach Mycroft with the spray from this distance. He had put a new cartridge into it before coming to his office.

Still he felt confused and slightly terrified by Mycroft's unwilling confession. And even more terrified by his decision to dig deeper even though he had no idea what he had to gain from exploring the matter further. Did he... fancy Mycroft, too? He hadn't had the courage to thoroughly think about it but the fact that he just had to come here spoke for itself, horrifying as it was. He had never fancied anyone! Let alone his own brother! He looked at him and couldn’t help but making a quick imaginary list of his brother's advantages and disadvantages. Mycroft had always wanted him to make lists after all…

The disadvantages obviously included Mycroft being his brother, which was certainly one of the main reasons why Mycroft would never actually want to do anything with him (and the sheer thought of what this might include made him shudder – but not entirely in a bad way...). They also included Mycroft being Mycroft with all his OCD behaviour, smugness and stiffness (well...), also him being an overbearing mother hen with principles Sherlock would never understand or respect and he just drove Sherlock mental!

On the other hand Sherlock was over thirty now, and still a virgin. He had never seriously thought about changing anything about that but now that he was facing the fact that Mycroft felt more for him than a brother probably should, he started to consider that it was maybe time to make some experiences, and there had never been a doubt for him that he was, so far completely theoretically, only drawn to male bodies. And he could really not imagine anyone he wanted to do this with, and Mycroft, Mr Perfect/British-Government was at least no stupid, clingy goldfish who needed a flashlight to find his own arse unlike some people. He was a good-looking man; Sherlock had to concede that. He was tall and had very unique features with this nose that had been thrown into the Holmesian gene pool by Grand-grandfather Richlock Holmes (and which Sherlock had thankfully not inherited as his face wouldn't just look weird then as it did now but completely ridiculous). The long, oddly shaped nose did look pretty good on Mycroft, he had to admit. He also had striking blue eyes, not exactly plush but nicely shaped lips, his personal hygiene did not lack in the least (in fact Sherlock couldn’t remember having ever smelled any sweat on Mycroft, no matter how hot he was and how many layers of posh clothing he was wearing) and he had long, slim legs, a very pert bottom and his tight suits rather stressed than hid an impressive set of male genitalia. All in all, Mycroft was by far not the ugliest man Sherlock could have chosen. He had never thought about Mycroft's assets before; in fact he had always still seen him as his chubby, annoying older brother as if no time had passed since Mycroft had been fifteen, thoroughly missing that he had long ceased to be anything but fit and handsome.

And still he had to be completely mad to even consider this! They didn't get along! They never had! Mycroft thought he was a loose cannon of a drug addict whom he could never let out of his control, no matter how long Sherlock had already stayed sober! And Sherlock thought Mycroft was sticking his long nose into all the matters that were of no concern to him! They would rather kill each other than be nice! But something about this 'being nice' possibility made his nether regions feel funny things… The problem was of course that Mycroft would never be indecent enough to touch him in any questionable way. But Sherlock assumed he would still do it soon enough… He really had to work on the formula to make the effect last longer… He had invented the stuff to force people to tell the truth but the fact that it also erased what had just happened from their memory was working in his favour very well, too, and he definitely had to prolong it.

"How did you do it, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked now with narrowed eyes and a wrinkled nose, confirming Sherlock's thoughts – there he could see the disadvantages in action. But the blue eyes were still rather pretty, narrowed or not! And didn’t his brother have very nice hands, too? Sherlock could imagine them doing pleasurable things without a problem. The problem would be _Mycroft_ though…

He sighed, took out the spray and used it. "How can you fancy me even though you find me totally annoying?" He stored the spray quickly after the second usage. There was so much he had to ask Mycroft but this question seemed to be a good start.

"How could anyone _not_ fancy you? You're beautiful, extremely smart and just delicious!" Mycroft answered in a tone of deep admiration and... affection.

Silly warmth spread through Sherlock's chest and it took a lot of effort to look completely indifferent.

"I'm waiting for your answer!" Mycroft said, returning to his extra-annoying tone.

"Then I'm afraid you'll go on waiting. Not going to tell you," Sherlock said with a smirk that made Mycroft look rather shocked. _Damn..._ He didn't smirk at his brother! He pouted and sulked and hissed and yelled, but he didn't _smirk_! This whole situation was messing greatly with his otherwise flawless brain!

He used the spray again. "Do you want to have sex with me?" For a moment he wondered if there were words that affected the impact of the substance. What if the word 'sex' was so unusual to hear for Mycroft that it would get through to his consciousness? Thankfully, it didn't. And he had to know if Mycroft only dreamt of holding hands or if he was out for something raunchier, even though he would have never suggested it to Sherlock of course.

"Of course I want that," Mycroft answered in a dreamy voice. "In all possible ways."

Sherlock gulped and almost forgot to store the spray can. He had just hid it in his jacket pocket when Mycroft snapped back to reality.

"Well, you are most childish. But as you have done such a fine job, have it your way."

"How generous of you." Sherlock got up, and Mycroft, polite as he was, did the same, and Sherlock took the can again and attacked him once more, but this time he didn't ask Mycroft anything but quickly brushed a kiss onto his lips without even thinking, and held his breath when he pulled back after spraying again. Would this feeling of his lips briefly pressed on Mycroft's break the spell? And if it did – would it cause Mycroft a heart attack or would he possibly lash out at him?

Neither of this happened and Sherlock was rather glad. Mycroft just blinked as they all did and absently reached up to his mouth and rubbed the spot where Sherlock's mouth had made contact with his but he very obviously didn't remember the kiss.

Sherlock on the other hand, aware that John would have said this action had been 'a bit not good' (well, of course he would have said this about the whole spray-affair, let alone the incest matter), knew he would remember this kiss forever. It had been a mere second but he could still feel Mycroft's soft lips on his own. It had felt nice. It still did and it had gone straight to his mind palace for being revisited thoroughly. And his reaction confirmed that Mycroft was not the only one of them with incestuous desires, God help him. Well, probably not… But didn’t they say that God helped those who were helping themselves? Not that this made much sense and God didn’t exist anyway but still…

"I could come over to your house tomorrow evening," he suggested casually, and Mycroft stared at him with almost comical surprise. Sherlock had never suggested meeting after all.

"What? What for?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Talking? Having dinner?"

"Shall we go to a restaurant then?" Mycroft eagerly asked after another moment of shocked silence, his mind probably already rummaging through his list of adequate places.

"God no," Sherlock said hastily. What sense would that make? He could hardly use the spray on him in a public place! And he was sure any restaurant his brother fancied would be a horribly stiff place with boring people all around… "I could bring something from Angelo's." The Italian would make suggestive noises and wink at him as he always did when he got something for himself and John but that was fine with him.

"I don't understand why you should want this," Mycroft said quietly, dropping all pretence, and Sherlock felt a little pang of guilt and he was not used to that.

But he knew he could (and should) have done this years ago. He wouldn't have known about Mycroft's feelings for him, let alone considering that he could possibly share them, but they could have hung out together as brothers. He could hear his pre-spray-self snorting about this alien thought but now it didn’t seem so weird anymore. "Nothing to it," he said. "Just think it's time to bury the hatchet and get along better." _Much, much better…_

Mycroft looked at him with a mixture of astonishment, suspicion and hesitant affection, and Sherlock thought that indeed it was time for that. He smiled at his brother innocently and after a long moment, Mycroft hesitantly smiled back.

And he thought it could be indeed quite nice to get to know his brother better again. They had been close as children. He had chosen to ignore that but he had not forgotten. Time to turn over a new leaf in their relationship! Time to find out who his brother really was – and what he was really wearing under his suits…


	3. Effects

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A glance on the four boys and John's and Lestrade's first date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone had ever told me I would write a Johnstrade pairing, I would have laughed. Loudly. But it sort of happened even though I will probably not go into any more detailed stuff. But this story is not finished yet :)

### Baker Street

“Oh, in such a hurry?” Sherlock asked innocently when John stormed into the flat.

John was panting and Sherlock thought they should chase after criminals more often to keep him in shape. “Yeah, had to work longer in the clinic and I got to go in an hour.”

“Surely you won't need an hour to take a shower and dress in your horrible jumper and jeans,” Sherlock teased him.

John gave him a rather annoyed look before disappearing in the bathroom.

Sherlock smiled and returned to his centrifuge and a moment later his laptop. He had the rest of today and tomorrow until dinner to improve the spray. Of course he was aware he couldn’t go that far as it wouldn't exactly work for hours. And if he used it continuously over a long time, it might make Mycroft forget he was ruling the kingdom and where would they end up then? England would fall! He had to be careful. But a few seconds longer shouldn’t do any harm.

He was rubbing his eyes when John returned, smelling like a scrubbed stripper and dressed in his best black jeans and a shirt that didn’t look crumpled! He looked rather nervous and tense.

“Oh, didn’t you say you were meeting Lestrade?”

John cast him a dark look. “I am.”

“And you dress up as if you want to go to a wedding? Why?” Oh, this was almost as much fun as the use of the spray!

“I don't!” John protested but his ear tips had gone pink.

Before he could go into complete defence mode and get nasty, Sherlock decided to give him a way out. “Right. Going to chase some girls, huh?”

John's features immediately relaxed. “Yeah. Sure! Why else would we go out together!”

Sherlock nodded. “Right. Oh, can you come over here for a second?”

“Sure. What are you working on?”

“You wouldn’t understand and forget it again in a second,” Sherlock smirked. He pointed at the display of his laptop, showing John's blog now instead of the file with the formula.

“What's up?” John asked curiously, and Sherlock fogged him in a cloud of forced truth, asking him in between, “If you could choose between Lestrade and some busty babe, whom would you pick?”

“Oh, well, that depends. Like them both. For tonight Greg of course.”

Interesting. So at least John was really also into women and not lying to himself all the time… He wasn't gay but he was obviously bisexual. How cunning! His nerve-wracking 'I am not gay!' was not even a real lie!

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Have you ever actually had sex with a man?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Yeah, but it was a long time ago.”

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Did you like it?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Yes, sure. Men can be tender, too!”

How cute! He had never taken John for the cuddly type! And Lestrade of all men had brought him back to the gay side, the old borer? Well, John wasn't famous for his taste after all… Mycroft's was a lot better… But then, one only had to compare their clothes…

“What did you want to show me?”

“Ah. This comment! Isn't it hilarious?”

Sherlock hadn't even read it but he had obviously picked a good one as John laughed. It even seemed to help him relax and Sherlock was quite proud of himself.

John picked up his jacket. “What are _you_ going to do tonight?”

“Ah, I guess I'll just do some more experiments.” For sure he would.

“Will our flat still be habitable when I return?”

“Is it habitable _now_?” Sherlock retorted dryly.

John looked around at the mess of clothes, laboratory equipment, empty mugs and books. A true bachelor's flat. “Point made. Well, bye then. If… if I don't come back tonight, I had some luck. With a woman!”

“Of course!” Sherlock beamed at him, thinking _'Oh so you do plan to play digger tonight?'_ He couldn’t wait to hear all about it, and if he was able to make some progress on the formula regarding the duration, he could test it on John in the night or the next morning, measuring the time John was talking without snapping back to reality.

And tomorrow night… he would test it on Mycroft… It made him feel all tingly…

### Mycroft's House

Mycroft set his briefcase onto the small round table next to the front door and stored his umbrella in its stand under it. He slipped out of his coat and hung it up. Then he locked the door and made sure the alarm was on again.

Through the silent corridor he walked with slow steps until he had reached his living room. He provided himself with a heavy glass and poured himself a stiff whiskey from the decanter. With the glass in his hand he sat down in his armchair and closed his eyes when he took the first sip.

A long day in Whitehall was over and in a little while he would first visit his bathroom and then go to the kitchen and reheat and then take what his housekeeper had prepared for him back to this room and eat. Perhaps he would listen to some classical music while he was taking his meal. Afterwards he would go upstairs and take a hot bath and shave. Then he would come back down to sit here, contemplating, turn the events of the day over in his head and make plans for the next day. He would watch the news and perhaps a film, or he would read a book. And then he would go upstairs and retreat into his bedroom.

He wouldn’t talk to anyone. He wouldn’t call anyone and nobody would call him (except for an emergency). He would sit alone and with every minute, the tension of the day would leave him more until he was relaxed enough to sleep for seven hours.

For now he was content sitting motionless in his armchair, thinking of Sherlock.

It wasn’t as if thinking of Sherlock was an unusual occurrence, quite the opposite. But today it was different.

Sherlock had taken his case without refusing first. He had not insulted him. Well, not a lot at least. He _had_ teased him with hating legwork and being lazy but… it hadn't sounded exactly hateful. He had solved his case in record time, so fast even that Mycroft had no idea how he had managed it. He had basically gone into the Jefferson's house and come out with the evidence they needed to charge the man for high treason after just a few minutes! As if he had known where to look, but Mycroft knew he hadn't. There was something quite unsettling about a Sherlock being helpful and so efficient when it came to Mycroft's cases!

And then! Then he had even suggested meeting for dinner the next day! That was unheard of! He had even smiled at him! Was he ill maybe? No. Mycroft had checked his medical reports only lately, and Sherlock was as healthy as they got. Had he maybe hurt his head and Mycroft wasn't aware? But Sherlock hadn't appeared to be injured or dizzy. He had said he wanted to 'bury the hatchet'.

It was too good to be true. Mycroft had never been entirely sure why the hatchet had ruled between them for so long to begin with, but he assumed the reason for their ongoing feud had been a combination of the age gap, their very different characters and the cherishing of very opposite treats, namely freedom/rebellion/addiction and reason/responsibility. Sherlock was unpredictable and in dire need for being reigned in in his eyes, and he was obviously the epitome of boredom and stiffness in Sherlock's eyes…

Surely it hadn't had anything to do with Mycroft's unholy feelings for his little brother? No. He had made sure Sherlock would never get to know about them and he definitely couldn’t be aware of them.

When it had started – Sherlock had been almost twenty and Mycroft had seen him for the first time after two years and God had his brother developed into something irresistible and siren-like – Mycroft had fought it with all he'd had. He had slept with other men. It hadn't helped. He had compared each and every one of them with his brother, and they had all come out of this comparison as the losers. Sherlock was not only unpredictable, keen on drugging himself into higher spheres, manipulative and snarky. He was also brilliant and beautiful, graceful and glorious. And he had not always despised him. As a child, Mycroft had been his hero, and Sherlock's big eyes and adoration had followed him everywhere. Like all children, he'd had to grow up but even though he had developed some not-so-welcome character traits, he had always been the human being Mycroft loved the most, or rather: the only one he had ever loved at all.

Nothing had changed this. No nasty remark, no contemptuous look, no refusal to help him with matters of national importance (even though he seemed to have taken care of his cases later on nonetheless when Mycroft thought about it).

And nothing had erased the non-brotherly feelings from Mycroft's heart. No other man, no telling himself how wrong and immoral and pointless it all was had changed a thing about it. Sherlock was the man he longed for, and he had long given up hope that would ever change.

But if Sherlock now wanted them to become better brothers, he would embrace the opportunity, no matter how much it would hurt to be close to him but not be able to touch him the way he craved for.

He could never have this, never explore his brother's precious body with his lips and hands, never move in him or have Sherlock moving in him. But perhaps he _could_ have back a brother who didn’t see him as his archenemy, and Mycroft would do all he could to make that happen even though it would break his heart that Sherlock would never love him back the way he did.

### A Pub, Somewhere In Central London

“Your chips are good?” _Great question, Watson. These are chips! Chips are always good!_

He took a gulp from his cold beer to hide his embarrassment. But Greg nodded vehemently.

“They are great! Wanna try?” He blushed furiously after this suggestion as John's face had turned red immediately. _Dammit, Lestrade, you idiot!_

John took a deep breath. “Yes,” he said, gathering all his courage. He had never allowed himself to think about men in a sexual way again after being with Danny Harris so long ago. He didn’t think it was wrong to be gay, hell, his sister was a Lesbian after all! But he wasn’t gay. He'd dated dozens of women for God's sake. But then he had noticed how manly Lestrade was. How pretty his large eyes were! And he had been rather excited when Greg had asked if he was free tonight in a new tone. What did he have to lose after all? Well, a lot actually. He and Sherlock were working together with Lestrade! But then… Lestrade wasn't the irrational kind. They could try this out and go on working on cases even if this, whatever it actually was, failed!

The DI made wide eyes but then he, feeling bolder, picked up a long, golden chip and offered it to the doctor.

 _Yes!_ John took it with his lips, bit into it – and almost spat it out. _Damn, this is hot!_ He chewed bravely with tears in his eyes. “'S good,” he brought out around the sizzling piece of potato.

Greg was close to slapping himself. Great! He had managed to burn John's mouth! For sure he wouldn’t want to kiss him then! But would he want that anyway? Had Sherlock lied to him?! John was nervous and fidgety and seemed embarrassed more than excited to be here with him. It couldn’t be because of the surroundings as the pub was really nice and nobody had annoyed them or anything. But then, Sherlock had just said that John had mentioned he wanted to have sex with a man; he had not said he was fancying _Lestrade_! How stupid! Probably he had just spoken about himself! “Sherlock looks good these days, huh?” he mumbled, scrutinising the shorter man.

John's shoulders fell. _Great! First Lestrade asks me if I want to try out a new pub, looking all wired up, his eyes definitely suggesting this was something else than our usual stroll to a pub, and yeah, it's nice here, no other policemen and good music, and now he talks about_ Sherlock's _beauty!_ _I should have known it! Everything is always about **Sherlock**! _“Sure,” he murmured. “Always does, the sodding git…”

Lestrade was perplexed. That hadn't exactly sounded as if John was into the detective! “You do, too,” he said boldly, and John's head snapped up.

 _Oh!_ “Thank you, Greg. Can only return the favour!”

And finally the boys smiled at each other and both thought that it had been a really good idea to come here together.

### Mycroft's House

When Mycroft started to get sleepy, he turned off the television, interrupting a black-and-white _romance noir_ that had somehow depressed him instead of providing him with a distraction from his everyday life.

He would never have this. Not with a woman anyway but neither with a man. Because this man would have to be Sherlock, his own little brother, and how sick was that? Leering and drooling for your younger sibling. It was pathetic! If Sherlock ever found out, he would be doomed. Sherlock would react with shock and disgust and everlasting mockery, if he would take to ever talking to him again at all.

With heavy steps, he climbed the stairs, not bothering to make light. He knew his house so well he could find the way to his bedroom in total darkness. He needed the darkness now as inside of him there was only darkness, too.

How was he supposed to meet Sherlock tomorrow? Play nice in a brotherly capacity? He should welcome it and a part of him did but the other part was devastated after watching this film. Why could his life not be like this? Excitement and mystery, challenge and love.

He should stick to horror thrillers maybe. They represented his personal life so much better…

Cursing himself for his self-pity and weepiness, he stalked into his bedroom, slipped off the robe he had put on after his bath and let himself drop onto his bed, telling himself he was not going to cry himself to sleep and would welcome his brother's efforts to have a better relationship, when they met the next day, he would smile and talk and be kind to him, if Sherlock let him, and eventually he would finally forget he loved him in all the wrong ways.

### Leaving The Pub

“Shall we go now?” Greg said, his fingers closed firmly around John's.

John was completely in awe, looking at the entwined hands. This had been the best evening of his life! They had so much in common! They had spoken about everything from their families to their jobs. They had known each other for years but in the end they had never spoken so freely about their lives. With one exception… They had not spoken about their previous love lives. Well, that was not something you did on the first date, was it? It was a very touchy subject. Greg had just got divorced, and John had had so many girlfriends but the affairs had always been very short-lived. Did Greg have any experiences with men? He had not mentioned it. But John thought he might find out soon enough.

“Yes,” he said. “Let's go.” Would they go to Greg's place now? They certainly could not go to his one… He didn’t want Sherlock to find out anything about this, at least not as long as it wasn't anything serious. He would never hear the end of it!

Side by side they left the pub and John walked into the still warm summer evening, taking a deep breath. And then a woman showed up in front of him, her boobs almost falling out of her top.

“You're Doctor John Watson, aren't you?!” She was all bright eyes, blonde attractiveness, about thirty years old and oozing well-deserved self-confidence.

“Um, yes, well…” He glanced at Greg, who was watching with serious eyes. “Nice to meet you. Goodbye.”

“Is Sherlock here, too?” She looked around him as if the tall detective could be hiding behind John's back.

John sighed. “No. He's not. If you excuse us now…”

“Oh, can you sign here?” She produced a pen and gestured at her right breast.

“I don't think so,” John mumbled, horrified. And wondering how he would have reacted a few days ago…

“Oh, please! Or can I make a picture of us?”

Greg looked rather annoyed now but he gave John a nod that said, 'Just do it and get it over with', and John nodded reluctantly, posing for a photo with the intrusive woman, who hadn't even glanced at Lestrade whom she obviously didn’t know from the internet or the papers.

“Great!” she stated after looking at the picture. “My friends will envy me so much!” And with this she brushed a kiss onto John's cheek and disappeared in the pub.

John took a deep breath and turned to Greg. “So sorry, man.”

“Not your fault, was it?” Greg said with a smile that looked nonetheless a bit sad. “A ladies' man you are for sure.”

“Pff. She asked for Sherlock, didn’t you hear that?”

“Yes, but she wanted you to sign her… Well, it's getting late and I have the early shift tomorrow. I better dash now.” Greg looked defeated and John couldn’t have that! He didn’t want this evening to end on such a note!

“No! Please. I'm not interested in her! And I really enjoyed this evening. And…” John cast him a desperate look, and Greg stared at him, and then they both made a step forward and their mouths crashed together in a frantic, toothy kiss.

### Baker Street

Sherlock, sitting in the darkness of the living room, could pinpoint the exact moment when John realised that he was not the only awake person in 221B.

“Dammit!” the doctor hissed. “You almost gave me a heart attack!” When Sherlock didn’t immediately answer, he added, “It's you, Sherlock?”

He snorted. “Who else?”

“Why are you sitting in the dark?”

“Thinking, John. That's when your brain cells are working.” And then Sherlock reached over and switched the light on, and John shielded his eyes with his arm and groaned. Sherlock tutted. “If I sit in the dark, you complain; I make light, you complain again. Illogical, isn’t it? Oh, John!” he cried out then. “Look at you! Your mouth's all bruised up!” And he had tried to smooth down his hair but he looked like some dirty-blond hedgehog. Obviously Lestrade had grabbed his skull quite heftily – during a wild kiss? Or a blowjob?

John rubbed over his lips, blushing heftily. “Yeah, well… Some people are very… enthusiastic.”

“It looks like! So – a nice lady then? Blonde? Brunette? A red-head?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock grinned for a split second before he mimicked astonishment. “All of them? On one evening?! You're a beast, John! A true womanizer!” Interesting that _'It's-All-Fine'_ -John was trying to hide his new gay relationship from him. Afraid Sherlock couldn’t find him as manly as before anymore? Ashamed of his feelings for a man?

The doctor squirmed. “No, just one, I mean. Listen, I'm tired. Can we discuss my love life in the morning?”

Nice try… Sherlock stood up with one swift movement and stalked over to John, who was still standing near the door. “No, as a matter of fact, we can't.” He took the spray out of the pocket of his robe and while John was still asking, “What have you got there?” he used it.

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Did you fuck with Lestrade? Or blow him?” _Fwsshhh!_

John shook his head. “Just kissed him. And there was a bit of groping.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. As if he hadn't known it. The decent, boring men!

He made a try, having worked on the spray all evening. “Was it nice?” If John wasn't under the influence anymore, he would think he was asking about the non-existent girl…

But the substance was still working. “Yes. He's a great kisser,” John said dreamily.

Sherlock doubted that very much, considering Lestrade's thin lips. But so were John's so he probably hadn't noticed… “Nice arse?”

“Oh yes, so plush and… Sherlock?” he asked then, looking and sounding confused as if waking up from a coma.

Sherlock scrutinised him. This was a new reaction! John looked as if he couldn’t remember anything from the moment he had, what, entered the flat? Even how he had got here? There was no way to find out now and that was fine with him. They would get there. But the effect of the spray did not only last longer – it erased more from the recipient's memory, too.

John shook his head for no obvious reason. “Um, I think I'll go to bed now. Good night.”

“Good night, John.” The improvement of the formula had given him about twenty seconds more. That was not good enough by far. A few seconds had been enough for convicting a criminal. It wasn’t enough for getting tactile with his clueless brother. He had to work on it some more. He needed a few minutes at least. But that John had remembered even less from before was encouraging.

He wouldn't gain much before he would meet Mycroft the next evening. And he would have to be a lot more careful with him. But he had been given a little while longer, and he would make use of it, and then improve the spray further, and make some more use of it. He was astonished when his cock reacted at this prospect by filling out. “Patience, Not-So-Little Holmes,” he mumbled. “We'll get there…” He hadn't exactly been out for inventing another date-rape-drug but he wasn't actually about to _rape_ Mycroft, was he? In fact Mycroft had confirmed he wanted to have sex with Sherlock! He was simply too decent and too faint-hearted to act on this desires and that wasn't fair, neither to himself not to Sherlock!

And with this he proceeded to go to bed, too. Working all evening had made him tired, and he wanted to be fresh the next day and particularly the next evening and he would take as much sleep as he could get.

An older brother was waiting to be explored. Thoroughly.


	4. The Holmeses Have Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes boys meet and Sherlock has some evil plans but things don't quite work out as expected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some non-con in this chapter! But so far it is rather "harmless".

“Oh, very dapper, Sherlock. Trying to impress anyone?”

 _Really? Paying back for yesterday?_ Sherlock tilted his head and gave John his best raised eyebrows. “I'm meeting my _brother_ , John. Do you seriously think that's a _date_?” He had told John Mycroft had wanted him to come over of course. It was still unheard of that he followed such an invitation but better than telling the doctor _he_ had initiated it…

John shrugged with a sheepish grimace. “Course not. Still you look good.”

Sherlock grinned to himself. If John knew how close he'd been to the truth… And that was fitting twice – John had burst into his bedroom when he had filled the spray can earlier just because there had been a bloody client! John hadn't even asked though what Sherlock was doing, used to him experimenting most of the time he wasn’t occupied with cases. Years of living together and horrible answers to his questions (“That's a badger's liver.” “These are the toenails of a dead killer; I want to see if I can extract evil from it.” etc.) had taught John not to ask anymore.

He gave the doctor a haughty look. “I can't let my brother be the more elegant one forever.” The spray was loaded and hidden in the pocket of his slim black jacket. He was clean shaven and his hair was styled. He was ready to meet big brother and learn things about him he had never dreamt about until two days ago. Life was awesome! Exciting! “Thank you,” he said. “Don't wait up for me.” Not that he would be able to stay with Mycroft all night. He couldn’t spray him for hours! But surely they would talk, too.

“My regards to your dear brother.” John mimicked an ironic little bow that would have made Mycroft scowl severely if he had witnessed it.

“Thanks. He'll be touched.” _And he'll certainly get touched by me…_ “Will you see Gus tonight?” he asked innocently.

John blushed. “No. Why? We're not meeting every day! And his name is _Greg_!”

“Oh, just thought now that you are _best friends_ …” Sherlock put as much suggestiveness as possible into the last words. He knew he was playing with fire here. John had never consciously told him he fancied Lestrade after all. Would he really buy Sherlock had deduced his changed interest in the inspector? And had it even changed? Perhaps he had wanted to get into the grey man's pants from the start! But Sherlock doubted that. John might have chased after every pretty girl in the beginning of their friendship, as this was socially accepted behaviour, no matter how disrespectful to women it actually was… He obviously needed more time to even confess to himself that he was interested in a man. And he was still completely unwilling to tell Sherlock about it even though he had always been so open when he had been after a woman… If Sherlock had actually cared about such stuff, he would have wondered if this internalised homophobia was still a problem of society as a whole or was due to John's very own personality, being an army captain and all. As it was, it just amused him how John was so keen on keeping the truth of his changed relationship from him, having no idea Sherlock's invention had brought it to light at the first try.

John stared at him. “ _You_ are my best friend, Sherlock! Nothing will change that!”

Sherlock swallowed, feeling a bit strange at this confession and taken aback that John hadn't picked up on his provoking tone. He had either missed it or chosen to ignore it, but what he had just said... “Ditto, John. Well, I guess I got to go. I have to get dinner from Angelo first and Mycroft will splutter and fume if I'm late.”

“God forbid. Have fun then.”

Oh, Sherlock would have fun indeed. He was absolutely sure he would have _loads_ of fun.

*****

“Hello, Sherlock, come in.”

He was smiling rather cautiously, Sherlock noticed while greeting his brother. Mycroft had made an effort with his clothes, too, well, that was nothing unusual of course. In love with him or not, Mycroft would have never welcomed him in baggy jog pants and a dirty shirt, but his suit was exceptionally elegant and the dark red shirt was contrasting its grey colour very nicely, and of course he was wearing a matching tie. He smelled very good, too.

“That smells good,” Mycroft said, and Sherlock grinned, but of course Mycroft was referring to the food he was bringing.

He had asked Angelo for a variation of pasta, and he was heavily loaded with boxes in a paper bag. Mycroft asked him to hand it over and Sherlock gave him the bag and slipped out of his coat. From the corner of his eye he caught Mycroft's appreciative look.

He knew he was looking good. Even John had noticed it after all! He hadn't bothered with a tie of course; there were limits. But all in all, Mycroft might still be the more elegant of the two of them but at least not by that far.

“Well then. Follow me to the dining room?” Mycroft sounded rather shy and Sherlock hurried to give him a wide smile while agreeing.

Mycroft was supposed to feel good and relaxed in his presence – for the first time probably. Sherlock _was_ here to work on a better relationship after all – even if there was a bit more to it than Mycroft expected.

He had worked on the formula for another few hours today and he was positive the effect would last for almost five minutes now but the respective recipient wouldn’t lose so much of his memory before being sprayed as that could be most inconvenient. He wouldn’t want Mycroft to wonder why he was suddenly in his house... And he hoped there would be no permanent damage to Mycroft's brain. He was less concerned regarding the others he had used it on – mainly John and, to a lesser degree, Lestrade, and just once Mrs Hudson, Donovan and Anderson. What damage could it do to people with such funny little brains? They hardly ever used the bit they had… But if Mycroft started messing up his job because Sherlock had destroyed his memory, it would probably not be that good. He couldn’t overdo the use of the spray.

They had been silently walking to the dining room in the meantime, and Sherlock saw that Mycroft had laid the table very nicely. A long table which he usually occupied all by himself; Sherlock was rather sure Mycroft didn’t have guests over very often. Or at all… His brother liked to be by himself; the only exception had been him when they had been a lot younger. But Sherlock wasn’t a goldfish after all as Mycroft used to entitle the normal, boring people. Sherlock was unique and Mycroft was obviously (cautiously) happy to have him here.

“Sit down, please,” Mycroft said, providing them with red wine after giving Sherlock a questioning look.

“Let it flow, brother. Tonight we want to feast!”

Mycroft looked at him, the despiser of food, a little disbelievingly, but then he smiled. “That we will do. Cheers, little brother. Thank you for coming.”

Sherlock clinked glasses with him and thought that this was starting off rather nice already.

*****

It was just wonderful to have him in his house. Mycroft couldn’t remember having smiled so often in an hour, let alone at his brother ever since he had grown up!

The food had been very good (and he had left a note for his housekeeper, saying he wouldn’t be home for dinner so she didn’t have to prepare anything), the wine superb, and Sherlock had actually been listening to him talking about his job and had asked intelligent questions and shown an interest in him Mycroft wouldn’t have thought possible. They had also spoken about some of Sherlock's cases as well as their childhood and fond old memories, which Sherlock seemed to have buried in his mind palace but clearly remembered now that Mycroft had reminded him of them. How he had set fire to Uncle Rossos after the old man had condescendingly asked him about his 'silly little experiments'. Or how they had caught Uncle Rudy kissing the marble statue in the garden, fumbling with the – literally – hard cock. And he had not even been drunk!

Sherlock had laughed and made remarks that clearly proved that he did recall the incidents now. And then he had mentioned that he had spent most nights in Mycroft's bed after their parents had gone to sleep.

Mycroft had cleared his throat and said that he did remember that. Oh, and how well he did… Nothing had ever happened of course! And Mycroft hadn't fancied _child Sherlock_ in the least. Or that was what he kept telling himself… Not that it was that much better to have started with having those awful desires when Sherlock had been of age. One was never of age to be in a sexual relationship with one's sibling!

He had changed the subject quickly, too afraid he could give anything about his feelings away. He would die of shame if Sherlock ever found out how he felt about him…

But when Sherlock suggested now to get more comfortable on the couch and have a drink together, he eagerly agreed. He wanted this to go on. He wanted Sherlock close to him, even though he wasn’t allowed to touch him. In the beginning he had expected this to hurt, but he was in fact enjoying Sherlock's presence and friendliness immensely. Probably the hurt would come when the detective had left but he would deal with it then. He had always dealt with it after all. He loved Sherlock like a man shouldn’t love his brother, and he had always paid for it with self-loathing and guilt; nothing new here. But to be allowed to think that Sherlock did actually like him a bit was more than he had ever expected ever since they had grown apart so many years ago. He had no idea what had changed Sherlock's change of heart but whatever it was, he was very grateful for it, and he wouldn’t ask to not risk destroying the mood.

“I have a very good scotch here. You think you could like it?” He presented Sherlock the bottle even though he knew his brother wasn’t exactly a connoisseur.

But Sherlock beamed at him. “I bet I'll like it a lot!”

And Mycroft thought only fleetingly that he had sounded a bit too enthusiastic to be talking about the scotch, too stunned he was by Sherlock's smile and how good he looked and how infatuating he smelled and how easy it was to drown in those fantastic ocean-coloured eyes to pay attention to his tiny little whispers in his mind that told him this was all too good to be true.

*****

“You can take off the jacket, Sherlock. It's still pretty warm in here.”

Sherlock winced. That wasn’t a good idea. He could probably still reach his instrument but he couldn’t exactly fumble for it. Of course, as soon as he sprayed Mycroft, he wouldn’t remember having tried to take the can away from him beforehand but he didn’t fancy such complications. "Only if you do it, too,” he said with a smirk and tilted his head and slightly batted his long eyelashes, and to his relief, Mycroft stared at him, close to have his tongue hanging out of his mouth, before he stiffened and sat back against the backrest of the couch.

“Um, I prefer keeping it on.” He even pulled the side of the grey jacket that was next to Sherlock closer to himself as if he wanted to hide something.

Sherlock almost giggled when he thought, _'What if **he** has a spray, too?' _But that wasn’t to be expected. Mycroft had never cared for experimenting and chemistry, his world were spies and schemes and manipulation and bowing to the sodding king or queen or whatever meaningless creature was the figurehead of their country at the moment. He would never be able to invent something as awesome, so whatever he was hiding, it wasn't a substance meant for making Sherlock willing and pliant. And his brain came to a halt when this thought occurred to him. Damn… An idea for another day for sure!

But he had to focus now. They had been spending a very nice evening. Mycroft had been surprisingly entertaining with his way of mocking everybody he had the displeasure of working with, and Sherlock understood better what his brother used to do all day for maintaining some sort of order in their kingdom. It wasn't exactly interesting as it mostly contained of reading reports and drawing conclusions and go into meetings so boring that even Sherlock's toenails would fall asleep if he had the bad luck of being forced to attend them. But that didn’t mean _Mycroft_ was boring. Sherlock might not understand the appeal of such a tedious occupation but like himself, Mycroft was unique in his position. Nobody could do his job, at least not nearly as well as he did, and that was the same for Sherlock. There were other detectives but none like him! And there wasn’t anyone who could ever replace Mycroft in what he was doing, and he had talked about his work with more irony and wit than Sherlock would have ever expected. It was a pleasure to speak with him, bottom line.

Deep in his mind a thing named conscience told him to leave it at this, to work on their brotherly bond so they would go on getting along so much better than before. They could spend time together and get to know each other in ways they had never come close to. It didn’t have to include sex; after all he had lived without sex all his life, and Mycroft would never make the first step.

But Sherlock didn’t see why he couldn’t have both! A better brotherly relationship – and some adult fun! After all it had been his brother who had confessed his feelings for him, well, not quite voluntarily but he had them anyway. Mycroft would love to get tactile with him, or he would love it if he wasn't such a sickeningly decent coward. Sherlock did wonder for a moment what Mycroft would do if he slowly showed him he was interested in him in a very not brotherly way. Perhaps he would be willing to give it a try. But if that went wrong… And it would take time and patience, and Sherlock had neither.

And so he pulled out the spray when Mycroft was just setting his glass onto the table.

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Do you still find me hot?" And he reached out and rubbed Mycroft's crotch with his left hand while spraying the second time, knowing that if the spray didn’t work properly now, he would be in the deepest trouble of his life. And that said something…

“You're the hottest man on earth,” Mycroft said in a gentle voice and looked down on Sherlock's hand. The hand that was feeling that his brother was already rather plump in his pants! Plump and impressively big… Not that his trousers hid his package that well anyway. But to feel it was something completely different.

“That's why you re-arranged your jacket!” Sherlock mumbled and pulled back, the spray already stored in his pocket again. His own cock started to misbehave too and he followed his brother's example by covering the slight bulge with a corner of his jacket.

Mycroft nodded. “I can't resist you. You are so amazing and beautiful and I feel so guilty because you're my little brother!”

“There's no need to feel guilty! It's fine with me!” Sherlock said hastily, wondering if he could influence Mycroft's subconscious even though he would have forgotten about this conversation as soon as he snapped back to reality. Perhaps if he said it often enough? He would have to experiment with John on this, telling him to do something he normally wouldn’t and see if he would do it in the end.

“I don't think it's fine,” Mycroft said stubbornly and Sherlock poked against his crotch once more, knowing his time was running out.

“But it is!”

“I love you, Sherlock.”

And that made him shut up, his cheeks flushed, and he was unable to have a clear thought.

“More scotch?” Mycroft asked him, his voice sounding matter-of-fact now, and Sherlock could see his erection had disappeared. His brother was back in the land of the living, and he had forgotten it all.

“Yes,” he said. “Definitely more scotch…”

*****

Sherlock was about to enter his bedroom when John came out of the bathroom that was directly next to it.

“Oh!” The doctor, wearing his blue robe, reached up to his heart. “You've startled me!”

“Sorry, John,” Sherlock said dryly. “I do live here, you know.”

“Yeah, I know.” He looked a bit sheepish and Sherlock took out the can and sprayed him.

 _Fwsshhh!_ “Lestrade was here, right _?” Fwsshhh!_ He wouldn’t have had to ask. John had scrubbed himself down and shaved and washed his hair, but his lips were sore and he had a beard burn on his cheek. Lestrade had had a stubble? Certainly a grey one…

“Oh yes. We made out for an hour!” John said with a silly grin.

“What did you do?”

“Sucked each other off!”

“Is his cock really so small?”

“Yes, but it works pretty well!”

“Is there sperm on our couch?” Not that he bothered. He would use it for experimentation!

“No,” John chuckled. “We swallowed it all!”

Sherlock couldn’t help but grimace but then he thought of Mycroft and wondered if he could improve the substance so much that it would last a blowjob… He would certainly try!

Mycroft wouldn’t allow a sexual relationship to happen. He was almost a hundred percent sure. So far his whispering to him that it was fine hadn't shown any result. He would go on with that, too, but he wouldn’t rely on it.

For whatever reason this had suddenly happened – he didn’t know and he didn’t care – he wanted them to be intimate. Mycroft was a good brother, albeit annoying and nosy and unbearable, he was someone he could talk to, he would understand the most complicated thoughts – and Sherlock was damn sure he would be a great lover for him! They could experiment with anything and everything together and the thought made him dizzy – and hard…

“Hey, Sherlock. How was your date?” John said with an annoying grin.

Sherlock almost shot back, _'And how was yours with Lestrade?'_ but he refrained from it in the last moment. “Fine,” he said. “I think I should be nicer to him. He… is a bit depressed.”

“In all probability _you_ are usually the reason why he's depressed,” John mumbled, and Sherlock scowled.

“Shut up and go to bed, John.”

“You're politeness is overwhelming. But you've probably used it all up for your brother…”

Sherlock didn’t grace him with an answer but stalked on and disappeared into his bedroom, almost slamming the door into the still talking doctor's face, ignoring his grumbling.

He hadn't sprayed Mycroft again. It just hadn't felt right after what Mycroft had said to him. But when he, after quickly undressing, was lying in his bed, he regretted it. Fuck decency and cautiousness and Mycroft's tender feelings! He wanted more! He wanted to explore his brother, and explore him properly. He hadn't even found out what sort of underwear he was wearing! He would make up for that tomorrow… They had not made an appointment when they had parted but he knew Mycroft would be happy to see him!

And he would be happy to see Mycroft, too…


	5. Young Love And Unexpected Dissonances

“Oh, look, John, there’s Glen.”

“His name is _Greg_!”

Sherlock suppressed a grin and turned to his flatmate, his features changing into a scowl. “No need to screech. Of course you can remember his name better than I.”

“What is _that_ supposed to mean!” John asked in a defensive tone.

Would he ever gather the courage to just tell Sherlock about them? Okay, they had only had two dates but they'd had some oral sex already. “I meant that I only see him at crime scenes,” Sherlock gestured at the body on the pavement, the early morning sun revealing deep stab wounds (and internally Sherlock was already deducing the victim and the crime), “and you are on much friendlier terms with him. Hi, Lestrade!”

The DI, speaking with a young constable, turned to them and his eyes brightened up when he saw John, and wasn't that cute! Sherlock imagined them sucking each other off and shuddered. He didn’t find Lestrade attractive, let alone John. And not only Lestrade was hung rather poorly; he had seen John naked often enough to know his dick was matching his other proportions, at least when soft, and he didn’t expect it to expand a lot when aroused.

Lestrade hurried to them. “Hello, Sherlock. Hello, John.”

Sherlock's lips twitched at the change of tone between the two greetings. Even an idiot could see that the policeman was totally in love. And John was blushing like a virgin!

“Oh, you look good today, Gunther. Doesn't he look good, John?” he drawled.

John blushed an even brighter shade of pink. “ _Greg_ ,” he corrected him once more through gritted teeth. “Yeah, nice.”

“You too, Doctor,” Lestrade breathed, and Sherlock wondered for a moment if the spray had already caused some long-term damage to him. Sherlock had used it only very sparsely on him and still the DI seemed to wear his heart on his sleeve already. Or perhaps John was just an enormously gifted cock-sucker. In any way he would have to watch Lestrade's reactions thoroughly. God forbid Mycroft, who would of course get more of the substance than anyone else, would turn into a silly-grinning, open fellow instead of the cold manipulator he had always been! Even though he obviously had a very soft spot for Sherlock, and this knowledge was something to wrap his mind around… And that he preferred Mycroft to stay his annoying self to anyone else while he wanted him to be nice to _him_ said a lot, too. Sherlock wasn't quite ready to ponder on what it actually meant.

“Thank you,” John mumbled, and if his face got any redder, it would probably explode from his skull.

“What have you got for us, Lestrade?” Sherlock saved him. He was here to solve a case after all, not only to admire the men's embarrassment or think about lasting damage. But he could already tell Lestrade more about the killer than the entire police would have found out after days of investigation so this case was barely a _seven_. And no chance to use the spray with so many people around. A proper waste of his precious time!

Lestrade was talking but Sherlock hardly listened, further scrutinising the body to confirm his deductions, and when Lestrade took a deep breath to deliver some more useless information, his eyes fixed on John, Sherlock told him everything about the killer except for his name and his address, but he told him he was related to the victim so even Lestrade should be able to find him within a day or two.

“My work's done,” Sherlock said dryly and span round his heel. “Coming, John?”

He realised how reluctant his partner was and chuckled to himself while stalking off. Oh, he had done some great matchmaking, hadn't he? He hadn't had a chance to ask John a lot about his first sex with a man for ages as they had been called to the crime scene before breakfast but he would do that later.

*****

Mycroft was sitting at his long dinner table, eating grilled salmon with rice and vegetables. On his own. As usual…

He had not had any contact with Sherlock during the day. Countless times he had started to text him and had deleted it all again. His words had just sounded dull, and why ever would Sherlock want to hear from him anyway? Yes, they had spent a nice evening together but obviously when Sherlock had said he wanted to improve their relationship, he had meant being less hostile and taking his cases without overly much reluctance, not being best friends all at once. He already had a 'best friend'…

So he had not dared text him and Sherlock had not contacted him either, and he was up for another lonely evening in the usual manner.

And then, he had just finished eating and put the dishes into the dishwasher, the doorbell rang. Somehow he knew it was Sherlock before even checking the door camera. He was wearing blue jeans! My God… Sherlock thighs and arse were such a sight in such tight trousers… It should be forbidden.

Mycroft scolded himself when he walked over to the door. Not _Sherlock in jeans_ should be forbidden – his own desires were.

Was it wise to spend more time with Sherlock? Wouldn’t he eventually realise what was going on in Mycroft's heart? Perhaps he had to be a bit more… Mycroftian to him… It would hurt him to be colder and more distant with Sherlock and it would perhaps even scare him off and that would kill Mycroft – but Sherlock finding out about his forbidden feelings was way worse.

So when he opened the door, he raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock? What are you doing here?” he asked in the coolest, most indifferent tone he could muster.

Sherlock's face fell and Mycroft could have slapped himself. Or run upstairs and thrown himself onto his bed, sobbing into the pillow.

And then… They were sitting opposite of each other in the living room. How had they got here? What was happening with him? Hadn't it been like this already the evening before? He had not remembered what he had said or done last. He had probably hidden his astonishment quite well but… He was overworked for sure. All those long days in the office, surrounded by imbeciles. It had to take its toll eventually.

“You look so stressed, brother mine,” Sherlock cooed. “Here, seems you need this.” And he handed Mycroft a glass with his favourite whiskey, and Mycroft gratefully took a sip. And then the glass was empty and Sherlock waved the bottle again. “More?”

He needed a few days off. Desperately… Obviously he wasn't behaving strangely in these moments where he seemed to drift off as Sherlock hadn't mentioned anything.

He held out his glass. “Yes. Just a bit. Thank you.” He sipped again and enjoyed the familiar burn in his throat but his hand was slightly shivering.

He felt relaxed. Suddenly. Inexplicably. “What happened?” he brought out, and somehow his tongue felt heavy. “Did you… did you drug my whiskey?!” It wouldn’t have been the first time… Sherlock had experimented on him plenty of times when they had been younger. But not lately. Not that he remembered…

Sherlock snorted. “Yeah, right! Why would I?” He took the still half-full glass from Mycroft's head and downed the liquid. “See? Nothing's happening.”

“I'm sorry,” Mycroft mumbled. Why did he have to spoil everything? Why couldn’t he just get over his stupid feelings and embrace his brother's efforts to be on better terms? And how stupid – he had already lost the way from the door to this room and he hadn't even drunk whiskey then! He just had to complicate everything…

“You'll never believe I'm sober. And you still think the worst of me,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes on his thighs. He sounded resigned and defeated.

“No! I know you are sober. And… I'm really sorry for accusing you. I just felt so strange. It's like I'm forgetting things.”

Big blue-green eyes were gazing into his full of sympathy. “Oh, Mycroft. That sounds serious. Perhaps you should see a doctor.”

“I don't need a doctor!” Mycroft flared and then blushed in embarrassment.

Sherlock stood up abruptly. “I guess it's better when I leave now. Sorry for dropping by uninvited. Won't happen again.” His tone was clipped and he oozed rightful exasperation, and even hurt.

What had he done now? “No, please, stay. I'm so…”

“…sorry, you said. I really didn’t mean to annoy you with my presence; I thought you'd like having me around. Stupid me.” And with this Sherlock stalked out of the room, and Mycroft was too horrified to immediately follow him.

“Wait!” he yelled then, but all he heard was the opening and closing of the front door, and he took the bottle and hurled it against the wall, and then he dropped into his armchair and sobbed.

*****

Damn… Sherlock's heart rate only slowly decreased. That had hit home frighteningly. He hadn't even considered Mycroft could get suspicious and think that Sherlock had drugged him! But his brother was so much smarter than John and Lestrade, whom he could probably spray until the earth started going around the sun – _of course_ he would realise he was missing a few minutes.

But God, these minutes had been fantastic!

He had first used the spray when Mycroft had talked to him in this nasty tone he hated on him when he had opened the door. It had not taken him very long to find out that Mycroft was simply afraid Sherlock could deduce his feelings if he was too nice to him. That was somehow pretty cute… The second time had been a lot more interesting of course: Sherlock had rubbed Mycroft through his trousers and then quickly opened the zipper to get to his bare cock after stating that Mycroft was wearing light blue silky boxers. And how silky the skin of his long penis had felt. How soft and yet hard. The third time Sherlock's cock had been out in the air, too, and he had got Mycroft to touch it. He had almost come at the very first touch and had cooled himself down by thinking of Mrs Hudson… He had only very reluctantly tucked their cocks away again.

And then Mycroft had accused him almost rightfully, and the only good thing about it had been that his erection had disappeared at once. Of course Sherlock hadn't put anything into his whiskey, but he had in fact used some not-exactly-legal substance on him. Repeatedly.

He had underestimated his brother. Mycroft was used to have his brain running on full capacity non-stop. He had to notice if someone used a chemical off switch and erased a few minutes from his perfect memory.

What was he supposed to do? He _couldn’t_ let it be. There was so much more to explore. If Mycroft wasn't so stupidly devoted to law and decency, they could have that without any treatment. But Sherlock didn’t dare tell him that he was interested in him, too. If Mycroft reacted badly to it, and Sherlock feared that he would, his brother would never let him near him again. Not when they were alone.

Sherlock just needed more. More contact, more precious, silky skin. And Mycroft's balls were very hairy. Delicious… How would they feel in his mouth? He just had to find out!

His phone had vibrated several times since he had left Mycroft's house, not feeling insulted but terrified by how close Mycroft had come to the truth. He hadn't had to check to know that Mycroft had tried to reach him to apologise again. He could accept it of course. Mycroft would want to make up for it. But perhaps his brother needed a bigger incentive to not question his strange loss of minutes in Sherlock's presence anymore. Of course Mycroft would notice it didn’t happen when Sherlock was not near him. So if Sherlock let him wait with responding to him, it would help his task. Or would it destroy everything?

Ah, this was so complicated. Sherlock had invented the substance to get faster results in complicated cases, and to find out what people were really thinking about him, and have all sorts of amusement.

He had certainly not expected to find out that big brother was in love with him. And even less had he expected to develop some incestuous fascination with him as well… But as things were now, he was obsessed with getting close to his brother. As close as possible. He assumed he would have to give Mycroft a break though and let him crave for him. It would probably torture his brother, sorry as he was, and it would torture him, too, horny as he was… Why did his brother have to be so stubbornly _good_! Now he didn’t find his brother's _'let's-be-cold-to-him-again-so-he-doesn't-deduce-my-true-feelings'_ strategy so cute anymore. It was frankly awful, annoying and a disgrace!

When he reached Baker Street, his phone had stopped signalising calls and texts, he was in a foul mood, and he didn’t even question John about his experiences with Lestrade any more. Right now he couldn’t have cared less about it…


	6. A Bedsheet And A Royal Case

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft requires Sherlock's and John's assistance. For the case of the blackmailing dominatrix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this helpful spray, this was the case that cried to be rewritten. I used a lot of the canon-conversation but of course changed the initial situation and the outcome quite a bit. I was burning to write this part from the beginning as I think Irene Adler is one of the most annoying characters to have ever "graced" the screen... I hope you enjoy.

“Um, your phone…”

“What about it, John.” Sherlock sipped at his tea. He hadn't bothered getting dressed, simply put on a robe. John had looked a bit irritated when he had come to the breakfast table but Sherlock had ignored it.

“It's constantly vibrating! Is there something wrong with your hearing?”

Sherlock grabbed the newspaper John had been about to read. “My hearing is totally fine.”

And then John's phone made a nerve-wrecking noise, and both men sighed.

“Can't you finally change that sodding tone?!” Sherlock hissed, while John was mumbling, “Thanks, now they come to _me_!”

He looked at the display. “It's your brother. Who would have guessed?” With a grimace he took the call. “Mycroft. Good morning to you, too… What?... Oh… No, Sherlock is… busy… Yes… Yes we will. See you.”

“A national catastrophe?” Sherlock concluded and bit into his toast.

“Seems so. Didn’t give me any details. But we're going to be picked up by a car in five minutes so you should better get ready.”

Sherlock nodded. “I totally will if my dear brother needs our assistance.”

“Will you now?”

Sherlock grinned.

*****

“You know he will explode,” John said after fastening his seatbelt.

“Mmm,” Sherlock made, rearranging his sheet. Those black government cars were really comfortable.

“He'll force you to get dressed in no time and I'm not that sure this agent picked some matching clothes for you.”

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft successfully forcing him to get dressed? In which universe? And dear brother would probably like the out-of-bed style. Sherlock snickered.

John gave him a disbelieving look and shook his head, grinning though. “You're such a menace.”

“It's one of my many admirable traits.”

“Mycroft will be so pissed off…”

“Is he ever not?” Mycroft had wanted to play cool big brother to put more distance between them again so Sherlock wouldn’t find out that in fact he was drooling when he saw him. Well, two could play this game…

“Where are we going?” John asked nobody in particular. The two men in the front of the car hadn't spoken a word since they had shooed them out of 221B.

“I have a suspicion,” Sherlock said coolly.

“You're going to tell me?”

“I'll give you a hint – there will be Corgis.” Deducing the agents had been so easy.

“Oh God!”

“Almost,” Sherlock said with a rather happy grin. This was going to be a lot of fun!

*****

“Any idea what we're doing here?” John, sitting next to him on the not overly comfortable sofa, looked around in awe.

“Not really. But I guess it's a safe bet it's regarding one of the holy people who live here.” Sherlock's voice was dripping with contempt. He had never understood his brother's obsession with the Royal Family and he had never cared about memorising which degenerated people it actually consisted of. And one of them seemed to be in trouble. Of course Mycroft would send the cavalry to get him to help…

John surprised him with looking closely at his sheet. “Are you… wearing any pants?”

“No.” He looked at his flatmate, and they both burst out laughing.

“So we're here to see the Queen, huh?” John said when he could speak again.

In this moment Mycroft came walking around the corner and Sherlock snorted. “Oh, apparently yes.” And they laughed again even louder, and Sherlock could see his brother was furious.

“Just once, can you two behave like grownups?!” he snarled, and Sherlock left it to John to let him know that there wasn’t much hope for it. 

It didn’t seem to improve Mycroft's mood. Strange - their nice dinner from two evenings ago seemed to be ages away now. But somehow Sherlock could still feel his brother's warm hand around his cock… He beat that memory down so his cock wouldn’t make an appearance through his sheet…

Mycroft grabbed the clothes the agent had brought and presented them to Sherlock with his most annoying face. “We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on.”

 _He is really a totally different person when he's working. And bending his back for his Majesty. Or_ her _Majesty, who cares?_ Sherlock shrugged. “What for?” he played dumb.

“Your client,” Mycroft answered through gritted teeth. He was really pissed off about Sherlock not answering his phone. And probably about him wearing nothing but a sheet…

Sherlock was all for provoking him a bit more. He got up, asking, “And my client _is_?”

“Illustrious... in the extreme.”

God, what sort of a comedian is this? Sherlock looked at the middle-aged man who had joined them. Of course John had to stand up, the old army crawler…

“And remaining – I have to inform you – entirely anonymous.”

 _Blah, blah…_ As if Sherlock couldn’t deduce that it had to one of the bloody royals. Did he think he was stupid or what?!

“Mycroft!” the twat greeted his brother in a strangely intimate tone.

He didn’t know Mycroft intimately, did he?! Sherlock felt his mood darken even more.

“Harry.” Mycroft went over to shake the arsehole's hand. “May I just apologise for the state of my little brother?” he added, making Sherlock even more furious.

He would have to ask his brother about this man! Not now of course. He hadn't brought the spray as it would have been rather pointless with the room full of people and probably heavily observed. And because he was only wearing a sheet.

“Full-time occupation, I imagine,” the idiot said. Sherlock thought he should perhaps work on an untraceable poison next time he had time for an experiment. “And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers.”

“Hello, yes.” John, the old bum-sucker. Anyone who praised his sodding past was a hero for him…

They blathered a bit and then Harry the Grinner mocked Sherlock with being shorter than his photographs suggested.

Sherlock had enough of this stupid conversation. Time for some real provocation! “I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend.” He stalked past John, stopping next to his brother. “Mycroft, I don’t do anonymous clients. I’m used to mystery at _one_ end of my cases. Both ends is too much work. Good morning.”

And then he walked off, waiting for… yes! Mycroft stepped onto the sheet and Sherlock let it almost slide off his body, and he could basically feel Mycroft staring at his naked arse. Now he had something to chew on! And one day he would hopefully chew on the real thing…

Having made his point, he finally gave in, got dressed and was soon looking at some boring photographs of a prostitute who had compromising pictures of one of the princesses who obviously liked to get whipped and then fucked by the so-called dominatrix who was presumptuous enough to call herself 'The Woman'. What a dull case! He pretended to be more interested when Mycroft told him that the woman wasn't actually blackmailing the royals but intended to play some sort of power game. They couldn’t be stupid enough to believe that! In the end it would definitely lead to blackmailing. But then – Mycroft had brought him here. He had to know that.

Nonchalantly he told Mycroft and Merry Harry that he would have the fancy photographs until the end of the day, and left after a little demonstration of his deduction powers.

On their way out John bombarded him with questions that he answered in a rather bored tone.

“Perhaps you should have gone there in the sheet, too,” John mused when they were sitting in the cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock chuckled. That had been funny! But no. He needed his equipment after all. And later he would report to his brother, and have another nice evening with him as Mycroft would be so thankful and stunned…

*****

“Punch you?” John looked at him disbelievingly.

Sometimes he was really thick! Or perhaps Lestrade had sucked the rest of his brain out! “Yes. Punch me, in the face. Didn’t you hear me?”

“I _always_ hear ‘punch me in the face’ when you’re speaking, but it’s usually subtext.”

Cheeky! And annoying! He was wasting Sherlock's time! “Oh, for God’s sakes.” He landed a blow on John's face. He didn’t have to wait long for the doctor's reply. In fact John hit him so hard that he hurt his fingers. Sherlock reached up to the cut on his cheek. Damn! That hurt… “Thank you. That was – that was...”

And then John punched him in the stomach, making him fall over. That was not exactly what he had planned! Ungrateful son of a bitch – after all that Sherlock had done for him, handing him Lestrade on a silver platter, he even tried to strangle him.

“Okay! I think we’re done now, John,” Sherlock rasped out, trying to free himself but John was like a terrier – he didn’t let go.

“You wanna remember, Sherlock: I was a soldier. I killed people.”

“You were a doctor!”

“I had bad days!”

*****

“You really think that's going to work?”

“Are you questioning my methods, John?”

“I'm questioning your sanity…”

Sherlock stopped walking and raised his eyebrows. “Still?”

“Yeah, I should know by now you're totally mental!”

The two partners looked at each other and then burst out laughing once more before continuing their way.

“It will work. Nobody sends away an injured priest with a posh accent.” Sherlock ruffled up his hair a bit.

“You look good in that outfit, I have to admit…”

 _Not quite as good as Lestrade with his lips around your dick though, right?_ “Thanks. You know what you have to do. If I don't get out of the living room within ten minutes, you'll make sure the fire alarm goes off.”

John nodded. “Right. But you're not going to explain why.”

“No.” They had almost reached the pathway to the house the woman named Irene Adler was living in. It was a very nice house. Blackmail paid out obviously. Sherlock mused that with his magical spray, he would be able to collect all sorts of embarrassing material if he was so inclined. He wasn't though. Blackmail was boring.

He looked at John. “Ready?”

“Yep. The game is on.”

Sherlock smiled. “Yes. It is definitely on.”

*****

It had worked. A woman, probably Miss Adler's assistant, had let them into the house, and John, pretending to not know Sherlock but just helping out, had excused himself to get a first aid kit to be able to tend to Sherlock's injuries. Had they bought his story about having been attacked? A woman presumably so clever couldn’t really fall for such a trick, could she? But Sherlock had counted on The Woman's curiosity. She had to know someone would come for her if she initiated a power play with the most powerful family in Britain. What would be her strategy? How did she want to confuse and outsmart him?

He didn’t have to wait long for the answer after sitting down on the sofa in the dominatrix's sitting room. Preparing to keep up his _'injured-man-of-God'_ -façade just in case Miss Adler really believed his story, he straightened his back when he heard steps from behind and gingerly pressed his handkerchief onto his bloody cheek. Damn… John really hit hard…

“Hello,” he heard a woman's voice. “Sorry to hear that you’ve been hurt. I don’t think Kate caught your name.”

 _Very self-confident. Arrogant. Thinks she's irresistible._ _No surprise here._ “I’m so sorry,” he whined. “I’m...” He stopped when he turned and saw the woman from the photographs. She was wearing high-heeled shoes, red lipstick and nothing else. He stared at her, speechless.

“Oh, it’s always hard to remember an alias when you’ve had a fright, isn’t it?” The black-haired woman walked into the room, stalked up to the couch and plucked the white card that had made him appear like a priest from his shirt collar. “There now – we’re _both_ defrocked... Mr Sherlock Holmes.”

“Miss Adler, I presume,” Sherlock answered calmly, dropping his role.

She looked down on him with a seductive expression. “Look at those cheekbones. I could cut myself slapping that face. Would you like me to try?”

Sherlock got up. “Not really.” He took out the spray. _Fwsshhh!_ “Where are the photographs?” _Fwsshhh!_

“In the safe. Under the mirror.”

How rapidly she was blinking all at once. An interesting reaction. Was her subconscious aware there was something highly unusual and inconvenient (for her) going on? “Give me the code.”

“It's my measurements.”

Sherlock snorted. “How would I know your measurements? Have you caught me looking at your bony body?”

“You like your women curvier?”

Thrilling! Her cheekiness was returning even under the influence of the spray! Not that it helped her. “I don't like women at all. The code. Now.”

A minute later he was holding a phone in his hands. Unsurprisingly, it was locked. “The passcode.”

She grimaced and didn’t answer, looking completely terrified, her jaws clenched.

Interesting. She was so afraid of losing this phone that even the spray couldn’t force her? Anxiety seemed to be a very strong motivator. But then he sprayed her again, and told her once more to give him the passcode, and this time she did it, and he was surprised it wasn't her birthday, as much in love with herself as she was. It was just a random number. He unlocked the phone and even at the first glance he noticed that there was a lot more on it than just some stupid sex pictures. This was dynamite. It could destroy the whole elite of this country.

He turned to her – the woman who didn’t resemble a dominatrix anymore. She looked like a frightened little girl. “You're not working alone. This is too big. Who's your employer?”

“He will kill me,” she said with tears pooling in her eyes.

“Too bad. The name!”

“Jim Moriarty!” she yelled.

Now that was a name he hadn't expected. He remembered the pool all-too-well. And poor Carl Powers. “Oh, _he_ again… Where is he? Do you know anything about his criminal realm?”

“I know everything. There's a file on this phone.”

“Excellent.” _Time to bring you down, Jimmy-Boy. You won't laugh at me again. And I doubt they'll let you wear your fancy Westwood-suits in prison._

“Please! This phone is my life. If I lose it, I won't even last six months. I'll do everything for you if you just let me keep it.” Her voice was unpleasantly shrill now.

Sherlock was already on his way out of the room, the phone and the spray in his pockets. “There is nothing I need from you.” _And Mycroft will be over the moon…_

And this was important. Very important. He could force Mycroft to touch his cock and maybe even suck him off by inflicting the substance. But he wanted him to give it freely. Would he ever? Would his desire for Sherlock beat his guilt and shame for feeling for him like this?

He would find out… He had annoyed his brother thoroughly enough today for the sake of punishment and distraction, had teased him with his bare arse and now he would give him what he had asked for and much more. Well, probably Mycroft knew there was more to Miss Adler than hosting those photographs… It should irk him but this was Mycroft's job after all. He was a manipulator like Sherlock, and they had always had their own power play… And Mycroft had no idea that Sherlock had the upper hand thanks to the spray.

Sherlock really couldn’t wait for their next meeting… He would send John home now and go to the Diogenes to hand his brother the phone. He didn’t want to wait until the evening.

John was standing in the corridor, stunned to see Sherlock so soon. “You got the photographs? Already?”

“I do. And lots more.”

“Please,” he heard behind him, and he turned to her, rolling his eyes.

“Do put some clothes on before you catch a cold, Miss Adler. Come now, John. Mission accomplished.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end of his part should make clear that this universe moves away from canon a lot afterwards (in the background). The fall is not going to happen so no violence from John and no Mary, and Eurus does not exist in this universe. Life will be so much nicer for the Baker Street Boys and of course Mycroft :)


	7. Confrontations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Greg have some serious fun in Baker Street. Then some very unwelcome visitors show up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: homophobia

### The Diogenes Club

“Hi Anthea. How's the mood?”

She, the inevitable phone in her hand, raised her eyebrows in an almost Holmesian way. There was no doubt for whom she was working. “Mine or his?”

Sherlock grinned. “Both.”

“Splendid. On my side… _He_ on the other hand…”

Sherlock sighed. “Hasn't he seen already how fast I've come out of the house? He's slipping.”

The door of Mycroft's office opened up and the man in question appeared. “Come in, Sherlock.” There were dark clouds on his face and his jaws were clenched when he looked at him expectantly. His mood didn’t seem to have changed since Sherlock's appearance in the palace.

The detective shrugged. One should think his brother was over the moon that he had solved his stupid case so promptly. He gave Anthea a sarcastic little wave and followed Mycroft into the old-fashioned, generous room in the part of the Diogenes Club where talking wasn't forbidden, and Sherlock had spoken his mind about these enormously stupid rules many times (and Mycroft had ignored him every time).

He took Adler's phone out of his coat pocket and put it onto the desk. “Here you go. Everything you were looking for and much more.”

Mycroft, sitting in his chair again, took it and glanced over it before taking his own phone and typing a text.

“You're calling someone off,” Sherlock concluded. “Not much faith in my abilities?”

Mycroft shrugged. “It's not that. There're other people who are very interested in the contents of this phone and they can stay at home now.”

Somehow Sherlock couldn’t find it in himself to be curious who these people were. But one aspect of this case was worth mentioning. “She works for Moriarty.”

Blue eyes widened in surprise. “What?”

Sherlock gave him a smug smile. Obviously his brother hadn't known that. “The one and only consulting criminal. On this phone there's enough ammunition to tear his empire down.”

“Great job, Sherlock. But how?”

Sherlock shook his head. “How what?”

“How did you get this phone so quickly?” Mycroft was standing again now. He seemed to vibrate. “This woman wasn't easy to crack. She's smart and cunning and no agent has succeeded in getting close to this…” He glanced at the phone. “So what did you do?”

And finally Sherlock understood. “You think I did what – have sex with her, and I was so good that she gave me her life's work as a reward? What happened – did you get a blow on the head?” _Or… did the use of the spray really do damage to your brain…?_

Mycroft made a wild gesture with both hands. “I don't know what I should think, Sherlock! It's just impossible! You and John were in there how long – ten minutes? And you come out with this woman's blackmailing material and all her secrets! Just like you did with this treacherous ex-agent!”

 _Damn…_ Sherlock knew he should have considered that. But John had been there, too. He couldn't have let him wait any longer or _he_ would have got suspicious! “Just don't think at all and accept that I am just very good at my job. And be assured – I did not touch her. She even welcomed me with nothing more than shoes on.”

Mycroft paled. “She did what?”

Perhaps not such a good idea to tell him that… But at least it had served as a distraction from the other touchy subject.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I didn’t look, brother. I am gay just in case you haven't noticed.”

“But you're not telling me what you did to get this phone.” Mycroft let himself drop into his chair again.

“No. But it had nothing to do with sex.” Sherlock let him see how honest he was. At least one thing he could really be honest about…

Finally Mycroft nodded. “Thank you for your quick success.”

“You're welcome. And um, sorry for Buckingham Palace. This sheet move, you know.” He watched Mycroft closely.

His brother blushed a bit. “I haven’t forgotten! That was very bratty.”

Sherlock was close to pulling out the spray and asking him how he had liked the view of his glorious globes. But he didn’t really have to… And it was too dangerous now. What if Anthea came in while Mycroft was under the influence? It was too risky. He didn’t believe anymore that his brother had suffered some damage from the substance; he had simply been jealous. And he had shown it. Wasn't that a good sign? Would he eventually admit his feelings for him?

He decided to be a bit open himself. “I didn’t like Harry.”

Mycroft looked surprised but then he smiled. “He's a bit arrogant.”

“And _you_ say that?!”

Mycroft even chuckled and Sherlock grinned. He was rather sure that Mycroft didn’t know Harry as well as he had feared. But he would ask him later. “I want to go over the contents of this with you. I'm most interested in Moriarty.”

Mycroft, serious again, nodded. “Come over tonight. I'll make dinner. And… sorry again for last night… I know you're clean and that was a stupid thing to say.”

Sherlock smiled. “No worries. Sorry for ignoring you afterwards.”

“You’ve always liked to sulk,” Mycroft teased him but it even sounded fond.

Sherlock allowed himself to wink at him. “We all have our hobbies, brother mine. See you then.” He turned to leave. “Shall I wear the sheet?” he asked then, innocently.

Mycroft swallowed hard and tried to hide it by glaring at him. “Very funny.”

“I know.” And with this Sherlock left to go back to Baker Street. Before they had parted ways – John being off to 221B, he to the Diogenes – his flatmate had texted someone, probably Lestrade. So the chances were good that if John was indeed at home now, he would have company. Sherlock grinned to himself while walking to hail a cab again. This should be a funny afternoon! And the evening would be even better of course. Life was glorious if one was a genius!

### Meanwhile In 221B

“Oh God!” panted John Watson. The firm hand around his throbbing cock felt outrageously good. He was used to small, tender hands but this one was big and a little rough and what it was doing was most exciting.

“No, it's _Greg_ ,” came the chuckled reply. “Do you forget my name now, too? Is it infectious?”

John slapped the DI's clothed arse in mock punishment. “Oi! Stop joking and go on groping!”

“As the doctor demands…”

John buried his face in the crook of Greg's neck, his left hand masturbating the other man as eagerly as he was doing for him. Who would have thought one day he would end up with the gorgeous detective inspector on the couch, fumbling like horny teenagers? They hadn't even undressed, just exposed their genitalia, not only because neither of them knew how long Sherlock would stay away or if Mrs Hudson decided to drop by, screeching 'Ooh-hoo', but also because it had been so urgent to get a hand around the other one's cock!

He had texted his new boyfriend that he would be Sherlock-less for a while when his flatmate had been about to leave to see his brother for the Adler case, and Greg hadn't hesitated for a moment, coming over with two folders, containing almost forgotten cold cases as an excuse (and certainly he did hope Sherlock would look at them and solve them), dropped them on the living room table and off they had gone.

“Fuck, oh, I'm coming,” John yelped, sounding nothing like himself, the next moment spilling hot fluid about Greg's hand, his trousers and probably the couch, too, and his busy hand cramped around Greg's penis and strangled his orgasm out of him, and there was stickiness everywhere.

And then the doorbell rang, and they looked at each other with open mouths.

“Don't let them in!” Greg hissed.

“Oh, what a great idea!” John hissed back, and then he heard the nasty noise of Mrs Hudson's door opening up. “Fuck! Let's get cleaned up!” And a moment later they were racing off to the bathroom, bumping into each other, and two wet cloths and hasty drying off later, John heard Mrs Hudson chirping from the hallway, “John, your parents are here to see you!” and he almost keeled over while Greg stammered, “Fuck, I hope they don't sit on the couch!”

*****

“How could you do that to me?!” John croaked into Mrs Hudson's ear while his parents sat down in his and Sherlock's armchairs. He had seen Greg discreetly wiping off the couch with a pillow, pretending to rearrange it, and now he was pouring tea for Mother and Father Watson as if he was the houseboy.

“But these are your parents, John,” the old lady said. “You should be happy that they've come to see you.”

“We don't get along at all!” They had visited his sister, Harriet, and found it a good idea to come to his flat uninvited, unexpected, and unwelcome. His mother had even said if they had called beforehand, John would have only found an excuse why he couldn’t meet them, and she'd been bloody right!

“Oh, that's a shame. You should always be glad you still have them. One day they'll be gone and you'll regret to not have spent more time with them.”

“I will most definitely not!” God, he hoped Sherlock would come back soon. He had not replied to John's text but he couldn’t stay with his brother forever! But probably Mycroft had a thing or two to say about Sherlock's nasty performance in the palace earlier… But if he did, Sherlock would just snort and go, wouldn’t he? Something was weird about him, and Mycroft. Well, weirder than usual… But John didn’t have any time to muse about this now. He had to get rid of his mother and father. As soon as possible.

“Will you come to us, John?” Mother Watson screeched. Her voice was getting shriller with every year, or so it appeared to him.

“Yes. Coming, mother.” And then Greg winked at him while sitting down and John felt stupidly happy, trapped and scared at the same time. Suppressing the urge to take Greg's hand and run out of his own home with him and leave his damn parents to Mrs Hudson and, eventually, Sherlock, he slowly walked over to have tea with two horribly unpleasant people who were unfortunately very closely related to him.

“Sit down, boy,” his father said impatiently. “Harry's wrecked our last nerve already, being all giggly with this… girl all the time.”

He grimaced, and John stared pleadingly at Mrs Hudson, who would not join them for tea but was still standing in the open door. She gave him a sympathetic smile and glanced at Greg, and John realised she was aware of the changed relationship between them. And she had thrown him to the wolves as if to say, _'You're an adult. Behave like one.'_

Now she left and he took a deep breath and prepared to get tarred and feathered, and he prayed for Sherlock to save him.

### An Awkward Little Party

“Oh, hello! How lovely that we have guests today in our modest home!” Sherlock beamed at the strange gathering in his living room, taking in the situation with one look.

John looked embarrassed to the core and relieved to see him. Lestrade, whose hair was suspiciously tousled, was apparently torn between amusement and terror. The other two people in the room were easy to identify, even if John hadn't texted him in panic and Mrs Hudson hadn't warned him that John had parental visitors (and Sherlock thought they were rather _parasitical_ visitors), he would have seen at once that he was confronted with Watson senior and John's dear mother.

The father, wearing his best, no, second-best suit, was all obvious ex-army man, too, albeit not a doctor. He had served his country until it had been time to retire. He was holding himself very straight in Sherlock's chair, trying to make up for his lack of height. His hair was darker than John's and cut very short. His brown eyes were hard and smug, and Sherlock couldn’t stand him at first view. In his mind this man had never truly left the army, and everybody who wasn’t or hadn't been a soldier was a weakling in his eyes.

The mother, dressed in an old-fashioned blue blouse and black skirt with a thick scarf around her neck, was a dirty-blonde like John, and he had got his blue eyes from her. Her face wasn't unattractive or it wouldn’t have been if she hadn't had carried such a sour expression. She was a woman who had never worked and had hated basically every moment of her life, having no real love for her two children, let alone her husband.

They were ghastly people and John and his sister (and was it so surprising that she had succumbed to the devil alcohol?) had his full sympathy. They had never spoken about their respective parents, Sherlock realised. Well, he understood now why John had always avoided the topic, and Sherlock didn’t exactly hate his parents but they lived in a different world, and that didn’t just include residing far away from London. They lived their lives with line-dancing, gardening and charity, and their sons lived theirs. He and Mycroft went there for Christmas and the odd birthday party and they exchanged phone calls with the elder Holmeses from time to time and that was it. Their parents were good people without a doubt, and there had never been a reason to question their love for their boys, as strange and unique as they were.

But now John's not so lovely mother and father were here and had to be dealt with. And Sherlock had already been to Buckingham Palace today and put up with Haughty Harry so he was well-prepared.

“Oh, you must be Mr and Mrs Watson! What a lovely surprise! We should have met much earlier,” he thundered, stalking up to the unwelcome intruders, ready to amuse himself thoroughly.

John's father got up, very reluctantly, and took the hand Sherlock was offering. As expected, he pressed it very hard, but Sherlock returned the pressure without even flinching. He had very big hands. And a big dick, but that didn’t matter right now.

“Henry Watson,” the old man snarled. “And you're this… detective.” He spat out the last word as if it was the most horrible insult he could think of.

Sherlock's smile got even more forced. What an arsehole. He thought John should have stayed in the army, injured or not. Or work fulltime as a doctor, not as Sherlock's partner and blogger. The old man was as conservative as they got, and he expected his children to live a life inside the norm, and neither of them did. The daughter an alcoholic, in a relationship with a woman, troubled severely and unable to keep a job for very long, and the son living far beneath his possibilities in his eyes, unmarried, no children, and now even in a relationship with a man.

But he didn’t even know that interesting last bit yet. John and Lestrade were both sitting on the couch but far apart from each other, not giving the impression of being a couple. But they had been together in the flat before so with one homosexual child, the parents might suspect something already. Sherlock couldn’t say he blamed John for not admitting it. And he did understand his constant denial of being gay a little bit better now…

“Sherlock Holmes, so nice to meet you. Mrs Watson,” he greeted John's mother, who didn’t get up and didn’t even look at his hand.

“This flat's a mess,” she said, looking around in disgust. “But what's to be expected with two bachelors living together… Or three?” She gave Lestrade a look full of contempt.

“Oh, the inspector is not living here. Not yet,” Sherlock said with a smirk, and John glowered at him. Sherlock ignored him. “But he's a welcome guest in our house.”

Lestrade looked at him, obviously unsure what to say to that. He seemed to be a bit hurt that John pretended to be on friendly terms with him but no more, but then, their relationship had only just begun to get interesting. They hadn't exactly reached the stage in which people introduced their significant other to their families. And with parents like this, nobody would want that, not even after ten years. “Thank you, Sherlock,” he mumbled in the end.

“You must be so proud of your children,” Sherlock said, turning to John's father again, and if looks could kill, he would have dropped dead at once; he could feel his flatmate's stare on the side of his face without even looking in his direction. John was obviously totally pissed off about his comments, but what had he expected? Sherlock being polite and neutral towards those horrible people? He should know him better by now.

John's father snorted. “Proud…”

How much contempt could be put in one usually very positive word…

“Yes. Proud,” Sherlock said, his voice calm, but he didn’t hide a strident undertone. “He has achieved so much. A highly decorated army captain. An accomplished doctor.”

“Yes! And now? He writes a _blog_ about your, your silly adventures.”

Mrs Watson nodded vehemently. “It's a shame.”

“No. It is not. Your son served his country for many years. He got injured and couldn’t go on doing the job he loved anymore.” Sherlock looked over to John, who was watching him with wide eyes now. So was Lestrade, and it looked rather cute. “And now he's doing something new he loves. He is the bravest and most remarkable man I've ever met. He always has my back.”

The old man snorted. “I bet…”

“No, not like this. Not with me,” Sherlock said casually, and John winced. “As a matter of fact, we were invited to Buckingham Palace today, and a close friend of the Queen praised his accomplishments.”

Now the elder Watsons' heads snapped up simultaneously. “Really?” the mother screeched.

John nodded. “Yes. It's true. Will write about it in my blog.” There was a hint of bitterness in this last word, and Sherlock couldn’t blame him for it.

“We lead a very exciting life,” Sherlock continued. “We solve cases for New Scotland Yard, and you have one of their best sitting right there. He's our friend. Greg Lestrade.”

John and Greg gaped and Sherlock smirked. And then John straightened his back. “And he's more than a friend for me. It's very new but… I know that we'll stay together. We just… fit.”

Greg looked stunned and happy, and their hands found each other on cue for everybody to see.

The old man groaned. “I knew it! Is a lesbian daughter not enough? Who will give us grandchildren?”

“I'm not obliged to give you anything,” John said firmly. “This is _my_ life, and I loved being in the army, but I can't do that anymore. I'm still a doctor, and you know I work part time at a clinic, but I enjoy being Sherlock's partner in crime even more. I… like Greg very much and I'm not missing anything. I hope you can accept that, and learn to accept Harry and Julia, too. We didn’t choose to be like this. I… fought it. There were women I liked a lot but I think… I think I've always been drawn to men more than women, but I knew you would hate that, so I lied to myself and chased females all my life, and I never found one I could be really happy with. But I'm happy now, and if you're not willing to accept that and rather condemn me for loving a man, you should probably just leave!”

There was a long silence after his outburst, and Sherlock, stunned, too, thought that John himself might have realised the truth of what he had said only when he had spoken it out. Father Watson looked completely shocked and his wife gaped like a very silly goldfish. Greg was holding John's hand and was seriously touched.

Everybody cringed when Sherlock clapped his hands together. “What a speech! We all love you, John. As I said – your parents must be so proud of you. Aren't you?” He glowered at the father, who finally nodded.

“Yes. You're our son. And Harriet's our daughter. You are who you are. If it makes you happy…”

Sherlock hoped that John wouldn’t start to cry as it would look so _unattractive_ , and it would be so _embarrassing_ , so he got up. “Drink your tea before it gets cold! I'll get my violin and play some happy music for our happy little party!” And he did, and it was all surprisingly civilised.

*****

“I can't believe I told them.” John was looking out of the window.

Greg had left first after having been called to a crime scene, asking Sherlock to have a look at two cold cases when he had time before he had excused himself. Sherlock had promised him to take care of them. Greg had not kissed John but they had shared rather cute long looks.

When they had drunk their second cup of tea, John's parents had gone, too, and John and his father had shaken hands. It wasn't all rainbows and roses, Sherlock assumed, but some kind of truce had been found. Only time would tell if they really learned to accept their children as they were and realise they were not there for fulfilling their parents' wishes. And God had he behaved like a grownup today! It was almost scary…

“They took it rather well,” Sherlock said now, putting the dishes onto the tray.

John turned to him. “Thank you. What you said… That was awesome.”

“No problem. It was all true.”

“I'm sorry, you know. That I didn’t tell you about me and Greg.”

“Ah, no worries. I guess it happened only recently so you needed to get used to it.”

“It wasn’t just that… Even when it happened, and felt good, a part of me was shit-scared. I never wanted to be gay. Or bi. Not sure how to label myself.”

“Nobody asks you for putting a label on your feelings, John. You are what you are. A man with great taste in friends and pretty good one in lovers.” Sherlock winked at him, and John surprised him with a hug.

He had not figured it out. He thought Sherlock had deduced him having got together with Lestrade, not having initiated it.

Sherlock returned the embrace a bit awkwardly and when they had parted and he went to bring his violin back into his bedroom, he thought that in a way he envied John. Fine, his parents were awful, and he could imagine John's and his sister's childhood rather well, but Lestrade, who had lived as a straight man before as well, had had no problems to admit his feelings for John and act on them, and no matter how grumbly and tight-arsed John's father was, he had been able to tell him about their relationship.

Mycroft on the other hand… He loathed himself for feeling for Sherlock this way, and even if they got together as lovers, and there was a spark of hope in Sherlock after their conversation in his brother's office, they would never be able to tell anyone about it. It would mean breaking the law and no matter how stupid this law was concerning two adult men, they had to respect it or Mycroft would never set a foot into Buckingham Palace again, instead he would be a _persona non grata_ to all the people who admired and respected him now. And Sherlock could very well imagine the reactions of John and Lestrade, let alone Molly Hooper…

Why did that even matter to him? He wasn't in love with his big brother. Of course not.

Or was he?


	8. Interruption And Consummation

### Mycroft's House

“It's enough, isn't it?” They were sitting in Mycroft's comfortable and cosy living room after having dinner in the pretentious dining room, each having placed a glass of whiskey on the table before them.

They had started discussing about the contents of Irene Adler's phony weapon over pasta and fish and then moved to get more comfortable. Sherlock's suggestion… Mycroft had been so happy about the results of his casework and he hadn't even admonished him for the sheet-scene anymore. There had been smiles and kind words and Sherlock had felt very appreciated by his big brother, and there was no denial that this was a very nice feeling, make him feel all fuzzy and warm.

Mycroft nodded and put the printouts onto the table. “He'll go to prison, and I don't see him coming out again.”

Sherlock felt euphoric. Finally! Jim Moriarty would curse the day when he had messed with Sherlock! “He was so arrogant when we met at the pool.” Having kidnapped John! Disgusting behaviour…

“He didn’t appreciate your gift for sure,” Mycroft mumbled.

“You got the memory stick back!” Sherlock protested.

“Yes, you were so kind to tell me it's in the pool so one of my people could dive in and get it out. He wasn't amused.”

“Your minions despise legwork as much as you do, huh?” Sherlock mumbled, feeling a bit grumpy all at once. He didn’t like to be reminded of long forgotten sins!

Mycroft sighed, and he seemed a bit resigned. “Well, I'm sure John is waiting for you.”

Sherlock didn’t like that tone. Not at all. “Nah. He's headed over to Lestrade. They are probably letting his bed jump right now.” After the scene with John's parents, they would certainly have something to celebrate.

Mycroft made wide eyes. “John and… Greg Lestrade?”

Sherlock glared at him. “Why, you fancy one of them?” Probably Lestrade! How dare he make eyes at his brother! And he had even played matchmaker for the ungrateful man and John!

But Mycroft just shook his head. “Of course not. I just thought he's utterly heterosexual.”

“And you didn’t think the same about John?”

“No. He always came across as closeted even to himself. I thought he… and you…”

 _Oh…_ “No worries here. We're not each other's types. He's too short, too volatile and too boring for me, and he likes his men less crazy.”

And then Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment when a smile appeared on his brother's face, a smile so fond and full of affection that it changed the already handsome features completely into something breathtakingly beautiful, and Mycroft said, “Well, we're not for the goldfish, I presume.”

“Right,” Sherlock brought out, “we're not. We're not meant for _them_.”

Mycroft blinked hastily before he abruptly stood up. “If you excuse me for a moment, I will…”

But Sherlock was on his feet, too. “No, sit down.” He took out the spray and urged his surprised and confused brother to sit again while already using it.

 _Fwsshhh!_ “It's fine, Mycroft. Even John once said it: it's all fine!” _Fwsshhh!_ Of course they hadn't been talking about incest when John had said that but what did it matter? They were two grownup men, they wanted this, and who had the right to tell them they couldn’t have it?!

“No, it's wrong. I shouldn't love you like this.”

“And what if… What if I… do it too?”

Mycroft gave him a smile full of sadness. “You don't. You love John and Mrs Hudson and your other friends but you don't love me.”

“Please! John, yes. He's saved my arse so many times; it would be very ungrateful to not like him. But you…”

Pictures were flickering in his mind. Pictures of a long-gone past of a cheeky little boy who admired his chubby older brother. Mycroft had taught him basically everything he knew. Sherlock wouldn't possess a mind palace without him! Perhaps alone he would have managed a mind hut. He was smart but Mycroft… He had always been his hero. Until… Until things had happened. He had left for uni and left Sherlock behind. Sherlock hadn't liked that. He might have reacted a tad resentfully whenever Mycroft had come home afterwards. They had grown apart, like many siblings probably did. And somehow he had ended on one side, the drug adventures/ exciting life/ new-friends site and Mycroft on the other one, the responsibilities/ duties/ boring side.

“I've always loved you. I just buried it under all the shit that happened since you saw me high for the first time,” he mused, and Mycroft gasped beside him, and Sherlock realised the spray wasn't working anymore. He had lost himself in memories and pondering for too long.

He used it again. And this time he didn’t speak as he knew he wouldn’t convince Mycroft anyway. He grabbed his brother's jaw and kissed him, and after just a second of hesitation, Mycroft gave in and kissed him back, his true self starving for Sherlock's soft lips and being held and making their tongues dance. And Sherlock lost himself in Mycroft's unique and delicious taste, feeling his arms around his waist, and he thought if he could just do this forever, he would never be bored again. His left hand searched for Mycroft's pert behind and grabbed it, making them both moan, and the kiss got even more heated and in the end Sherlock let his lips wander deeper and nibbled at Mycroft's soft throat, and it took him all of his willpower to not suck the tender flesh between his teeth and leave a mark because he wouldn’t be able to spray this away.

Knowing his time was running out, he pulled back to pick up the spray that he had lost on the couch to store it when Mycroft's phone vibrated. It took his brother just a few seconds to come out of his trance and it was barely enough for Sherlock to retreat so they didn’t sit so close to each other anymore, and to hide the little can.

Mycroft sounded a bit absent and slow when he answered, and from what he said after listening for a long moment, Sherlock knew their cosy evening was over.

With a sigh Mycroft, now completely himself again, ended the connection. In a way the call had helped Sherlock as Mycroft didn’t think about the lost minutes anymore, back in business mode. “I have to go. A little emergency in the office.”

“Can I help?”

Mycroft gaped at him. Probably because Sherlock hadn't offered his assistance too often in the past. Or ever. “No, thank you,” he answered when he had recovered from the shock. “It's nothing serious. Just some very important people who have to be consoled.”

Getting consoled by his cold fish of a brother… But somehow that brought back another memory. “You always consoled me,” Sherlock said. “When I was little and had hurt myself.”

Mycroft was surprised but then he smiled again this fond smile. “You hurt yourself all the time. No tree was too high, no dog too dangerous, no substance too explosive. You always wanted to climb higher, and test your limits, and test everyone else's limits, too.”

“Not much has changed about that,” Sherlock mused.

“No. It really hasn't. But now you have other people to tend to your wounds, so to speak, and sometimes quite literally...”

“Don't I… still have you, too?”

Mycroft blinked. “Always, Sherlock. You have me, and I'm there for you. I'll always be there for you.”

Suddenly Sherlock had a lump in his throat. This had been Mycroft in his fully conscious state. _'Caring-Is-Not-An-Advantage'_ -Mycroft… It meant all the more. “Ditto, brother,” he brought out. “Can we… meet again tomorrow? You must tell me what happens with Moriarty,” he hurried to add.

His brother only seemed glad about his suggestion. “Yes, of course. Come over, same time. I hope then we'll be undisturbed.”

Sherlock hoped that, too. He wanted more. He needed more. Three times it hadn't worked out. It just had to next time.

### Meanwhile In Greg Lestrade's Bedroom

“Yeah, give it to me, Doc!”

John was doing his best indeed. His hands having Greg's slim hips in a firm grip, he was pounding away and he cursed himself for not having this let happen ages ago. He loved the male form, the firm cheeks, the muscular legs, the hair, the manliness. And he loved Greg. It was still early days for them but he was sure already.

“Damn, Watson, you're a force of nature!” Greg brought out, and John grinned.

“If you can still talk that coherently, I'm doing something wrong.”

Greg chuckled. “Nothing wrong here. Love your treatment, Doctor.”

“And all without a nurse,” John said with a giggle, and then he groaned when he felt his orgasm building up. “Dammit, I'm coming!” And so he did, spilling into the condom, and Greg beat himself off to his own climax a few moments later.

A bit of cleaning up and rearranging on Greg's generous bed later, John's head was resting on the policeman's broad chest. “That was awesome.”

“Yes, indeed.” Greg played with John's hair. “I could get used to that.”

“Me too. And also… the other way around…”

“Oh, yeah! Thank God for Sherlock Holmes. Oops.”

John turned his head to look into his eyes. “What do you mean?”

Greg grinned sheepishly. “Well, he brought you into my life after all.”

John narrowed his eyes. “That's true. But it's not what you meant.” Over the past few years he might have learned a thing or two from Sherlock about deductions after all.

“Damn. You're too smart for me. He told me to not tell you.”

“Tell me what?”

“That you were so keen on having sex with a man…”

“What?!” John rolled to his side and sat up. “I've never told him that!”

“No? But it's true, isn't it?”

“Yes, but…” John had thought Sherlock knew about him and Lestrade because he had deduced their new way of dealing with each other. He hadn't had the faintest idea that Sherlock had encouraged Lestrade to make a move on him! How could he know that?! John hadn't even admitted to himself that he was ready and willing to give his gay side another try. And he knew he had always made sure to pretend he and Greg only met up like buddies towards Sherlock.

And then John remembered something. An item he'd not seen before. A little can. A sheepish look on Sherlock's face for just a moment. The case with the agent. The case with the dominatrix. Both solved in record time as if… as if he had magical abilities… Only that it hadn't been magic. It had been science. And of course Sherlock would use it without the hint of a bad conscience.

“This utter cock!” he hissed, torn between admiration and fury.

“What? What's he done?”

“I have a strong suspicion. I should kill him!” But of course he wouldn’t. Without Sherlock's impertinence, and yes, brilliance, he wouldn’t be here now. He would have gone on chasing women he dropped again in an instant because he just wasn't really interested. He _was_ interested in Greg. And he had him. Thanks to the most annoying, reckless, most impossible man on this planet…

Greg, who looked at him as if he had lost his mind.

John smiled and tousled the older man's hair. “Never mind. It's all fine.”

“But what…”

“Care for a second go?” John smirked.

Greg gave him a surprised and then happy grin. “I thought you'd never ask!”

### Mycroft Back Home

Mycroft pulled the blanket up to his chest. He was tired. Tired but happier than he had been for a long time.

It had been easy to do his job. He hadn't liked to have his evening with Sherlock interrupted, but the kindness of these last minutes before they had parted was now stored in his soul and he would revisit it whenever they would snark and bicker and fight again in the future. How insecure Sherlock had sounded, asking him if he didn't have Mycroft anymore. How could he doubt that? Of course he had!

He loved him so much. His entire being revolved around looking after his baby brother. Caring for him. Making sure he was safe. Loving him. That there were aspects of this that were wrong and awful didn’t change the fact that his love was all encompassing. He would never give his brother up. Not in the dark drugs days, not in all the moments of being mocked and trampled on by him. Sherlock had forgiven him for his false accusations and they had been closer than ever since they had been children, and Mycroft was very grateful for it.

When he had finished his duties, he had come home for a long, hot shower and then he had gone to bed, looking forward to the next, hopefully uninterrupted evening spent with Sherlock. Until then Moriarty would be locked up already; his agents were on it right now. The evidence was overwhelming and the consulting criminal would not be able to talk himself out of it. He would cry 'foul play' and threaten them with his revenge, but this wouldn’t happen. Sherlock would be safe. As always, this was all that mattered.

Not long after snuggling into the pillows, Mycroft fell asleep.

And he dreamt. He dreamt of Sherlock smiling at him. Of Sherlock's wonderfully soft lips pressed on his. Of his tongue invading Mycroft's mouth. His large hands, kneading his bum. His sharp teeth, worrying the skin of his neck. Mycroft's hand around Sherlock's cock, Sherlock's around his… It felt so real. And even in his dream Mycroft thought this was too clear, too vivid, to be a dream.

It was a memory. And yet it couldn’t be.

Whatever it was – Mycroft was happy, a smile had spread on his face while in his dream he was holding and kissing and feeling Sherlock, and it all seemed so right like it could only do in a dream.


	9. Stripped

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock gets some advice he doesn't want to hear. And he has waited long enough for some serious fun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, let's finish this weird story. I hope a few of you did actually like it, especially if any of you read it for my first (and probably only) Johnstrade experiment. I hadn't planned to include it but the story required it. Thanks for your support and encouragement and bye for now.
> 
> This last chapter will include some more questionable non-con so be warned.

### Baker Street

John took a cheese sandwich. “Man, four cases in a row. I'm starving.” He gobbled the pieces of rather dry bread around limp Gouda down in record time. The food had waited for them quite some time on this busy day.

“You're always starving,” Sherlock replied absently, his eyes staring fixedly at his phone.

The blond man made an agreeing noise. “Probably. What do you think – this last guy. Did he lie to us?”

“About what?” Sherlock was still only listening with half an ear.

“That he didn’t know about his father's secret daughter long before?”

“How should I know?”

“Yes. How. Hey, why didn’t you use your great invention?”

Sherlock's head snapped up at this deliberately casual question. “I have no idea what you're talking about.” But he knew his secret substance wasn’t a secret anymore. Damn. He should have seen that coming. Especially after John had seen him with the can. And now Lestrade had obviously told him what he had been supposed to keep for himself – that Sherlock had mentioned John's wish to have sex with a man… Traitor! And for once John had observed and not just seen. He should have picked another opportunity for that… In any way the cat was obviously out of the bag.

John nodded. “Right. A genius doesn’t give his methods away. Didn’t you say that?”

“Still valid.”

“Oh no, you're not getting out of this so easily! How could you do that?!” John didn’t sound too casual anymore.

“Well, John,” Sherlock started haughtily, “you would never understand the formula and…”

“I don't give a rat's arse about your formula! You did what, treat me with some experimental stuff, and I told you all my nasty secrets? Is that how it works?”

“Not quite,” Sherlock mumbled. “I'm spraying people, the next thing they say it's the deepest truth. Or I ask them something, and they can't lie to me.”

John shook his head in awe. “And you didn’t tell me about it and sent me away whenever you used it in a case why?”

“Because you would have told somebody and then the Yard or the Secret Service would have wanted to have it, and I didn’t want you to move out…”

“Wait, what? What does this have to do with anything? I'm not keeping up.” Sherlock opened his mouth and John silenced him with a rude gesture of his right hand. “Don't say it!”

Sherlock sighed and explained to him that he was actually a very wealthy man and didn’t want anyone to know, and that selling the spray would have made him even richer but also unemployed and he would have died of boredom and annoyance about people wanting money from him and that John would have thought there was no reason for him to stay and would eventually leave him alone and who would be there to make tea and be helpful?

John listened with full concentration, and in the end he shook his head. “Sherlock… I don't say I'll never move out. Especially now that I and Greg…”

“Great. And _I_ brought you together!” What a bloody fool he was!

“Even if that happens one day, and I really can't say, we'll still be friends. We'll always be friends!”

“Yes?”

“Yes, you big idiot! Come here.”

An embarrassing hug later, they sat down again.

“So – Mycroft doesn’t know it either?”

Sherlock winced. “No. He may never know it!”

“Why, because he's the Secret Service? Or… Fuck!”

“What?! It's nothing!”

“You are using it on him, too! That's why you go to him all the time.”

“I do not…”

“You spent every evening with him this week! And you will go there tonight, too, right?”

“I have to talk to him about Moriarty…”

“No, no, no. What is this really about?” John scrutinised him, and Sherlock didn’t like to be the victim of this man's scrutiny. “What do you have to gain from him?”

“What, you think I'm getting state secrets from him? What for, for selling?”

“No,” John said slowly. “That doesn’t make any sense. You don't care for money. As long as you have your posh suits and can afford to take a cab, you're happy.”

“I do like to dress well, Jumper-John!”

John chuckled, but then he froze. “No. It's not… No. Not even you could get so low.”

Sherlock paled. He could see that John had figured out the truth. He had once more underestimated one of his nearest and dearest. “I've done nothing with him.” It was not a complete lie. What was some kissing and a bit of groping?

“You are abusing him!”

“No! Didn’t you hear me? I said the spray brings out the truth in people. I do nothing he doesn’t want.”

“Yeah, he might want you, and I guess some things make suddenly way more sense now - kidnapping me, anyone? But that doesn’t mean he wants to act on it!”

“No, he doesn’t, because he's a coward, and he thinks he has to protect me, even from himself. And that sucks. I just kissed him.”

“This is not right, Sherlock.”

“Bah!”

John grabbed his forearm. “I know you don't give a damn for conventions and decency and all this annoying stuff but this goes way too far, even for you. Can you make people do things with this spray, too? Influence their thoughts? Brainwash?”

“Not sure,” Sherlock mumbled. “I wanted to test that on you but I didn’t really have the opportunity…”

“What a shame!”

“Yes! It is.”

“He loves you… And he thinks you come over to him because you… like him, too.”

“I do.” And wasn’t that true?

“If you did, you would keep your hands off him.”

“Oh, John. How self-righteous you are. You and Lestrade, the happy couple. Nobody cares, it's all fine and all this crap, okay, except for your ghastly parents, but I did sort that out, didn’t I? And without me and my spray, you would still pretend you're straight and be unhappy and grumbly and you wouldn’t even know why!”

John took a deep breath. “I get that. You're right. And I'm grateful for your crazy-arse help. But that doesn’t excuse raping your brother, because I know you – you did more than just kiss him, or you still plan to. Given such an opportunity, you can't resist.”

Sherlock just snorted.

John got up. “And it might be not quite that easy for Greg and me. He was married, you know. He too has old parents who will not be that happy about him dating a man. He is a policeman. You think those folks are so open-minded?”

“Yeah. True. It might be difficult, too. But it's not impossible… Mycroft would never dare do anything with me, and not because he doesn’t want to but because it's forbidden by stupid laws that don't even know how stupid they are!”

“It sucks, yes. But you're not going to make that better by forcing yourself onto him. Let that be, Sherlock. Nothing good will come out of this.”

“Thanks; I didn’t know you're also a therapist!”

“I'm not. I'm just your friend.”

Sherlock stared at his serious face. “Will you tell him? Mycroft?”

John grimaced. “You really think I'd do that? Do you know me so little? You're a smart boy. You know it's wrong. It was great for solving those cases and will certainly be equally helpful for others, even though I'm quite sure the police couldn’t use it in any legal way.”

“Not necessarily. Any suspect would tell them where they find the hard evidence they need, and he wouldn’t recall it. And I'm not going to sell it anyway!”

“You don't have to. It's your choice and I won't even tell Greg. And it's also your choice if you use it for such private and delicate matters or not. I just hope you'll do the right thing and not use it again for any… sexual purpose on your brother. And by the way – if you use it on me, or Greg, for _whatever_ purpose again, and I find that out, I'll ram it into your nose.”

Sherlock was quite sure that was a joke. It was hard to say as the grin on John's face was rather grim and threatening but also a bit fond. “I guess you've got to go to your shift,” he said, avoiding an answer.

“Yes. And when I come back, you'll be with Mycroft.” It was not exactly a question.

Sherlock nodded, waiting for John to reprimand him again. But John just nodded, too, and then he grabbed a few sandwiches and stored them in a box, and a few minutes later, he was gone, leaving Sherlock to think of ghastly things like consent, decency and responsibility. He didn’t waste much time on it…

### Mycroft's House

“Oh, he doesn’t look happy!” chuckled Sherlock, delighted.

“No, he really doesn’t. He thought he's untouchable. Nobody was to know that much about his organisation. Miss Adler really did her homework.” Mycroft, sitting nicely close to Sherlock on the couch, looked at the tablet that was showing a video of Jim Moriarty in an interrogation room. It hadn't been Mycroft who had spoken to him of course; he had people to take care of such matters, his big brother.

“Did you lock her up, too?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No. We are still assessing the other contents of her phone. I guess it's enough to lock her up for a long time, too, if she doesn’t manage to disappear.”

Sherlock tilted his head. “She's not under surveillance?”

Mycroft gave him a calm look. “No. We don't have enough people to observe everybody who draws our attention.”

“I see…” Sherlock took a sip of his whiskey. So far they had been spending the evening with dinner and talking about the imprisonment and dark secrets of Jim Moriarty, the former consulting criminal. He wouldn’t put any people in bomb-vests anymore!

He was itching after turning to even more pleasant activities though. He leaned back on the couch when the film was finished. “So – a very successful day for both of us, huh?”

Mycroft smiled, and it was this smile that did things to Sherlock. “Yes, you could say that. I think…” And then his phone vibrated and Sherlock couldn’t suppress a groan. “Sorry, I need to take this.”

And then he would disappear again! It was so frustrating! If Mycroft just showed any indication he was up for getting tactile without the treatment, everything would be so much easier. Of course, if he had to go to the office every time they met, that wouldn’t help either…

Mycroft was listening to whoever was disturbing them now. “I see… Yes… No, it's not… Thanks for letting me know. Good evening.” He ended the call. “Miss Adler,” he said then. “She was killed in her house, along with her assistant. The police arrested a man named Sebastian Moran, and he has a connection with Moriarty.”

“Oh. Damn. That was fast!”

“Yes. They figured out she had betrayed him very quickly.”

Sherlock hummed. She hadn't done that exactly voluntarily. And she had been a young woman. With a preference for bad games, and she had lost this final one. “More whiskey?” Mycroft hadn't said anything about leaving! It was his lucky day!

Mycroft smiled and offered him his glass. “If you could be so kind.”

They both drank, and Sherlock enjoyed the burn in his throat. They simultaneously set their glasses onto the table, and Sherlock's heart started to beat faster.

But Mycroft said, “Harry called me. He said he could use your help on another case.”

Sherlock groaned and took the spray out and pushed the button. “Harry. Harry can kiss my arse.”

“You're naughty,” Mycroft mumbled, and got all pliant in Sherlock's arms when the detective pulled him in for a fierce kiss.

But this time this wasn’t enough, as pleasant as it was, and he wouldn’t waste any more time and risk that the next one who called made Mycroft leave again before he finally got what he had wanted for days now.

Sherlock sprayed again and slid onto the carpet, placing himself between Mycroft's thighs.

“No, that's not right,” Mycroft mumbled, sounding a tad sleepy.

“You don't like me doing that?” Sherlock unzipped his brother's trousers.

“I do… But we can't…”

“We can! And we will…” And then Sherlock freed his brother's already plump cock from its confinements and bent forward to take it into his mouth.

“Oh God,” Mycroft groaned, and when Sherlock looked up, going crossed-eyed in the go, he could only see the white in his brother's eyes. Obviously it did feel good.

He eased back the foreskin that was still covering a part of Mycroft's knob and admired the sight of shiny pinkness. Then he probingly sucked at the wide, flexible head and got rewarded by a drop of bitter but strangely tasty fluid, pearling onto his tongue, and the taste made him roll his eyes, too. This was extraordinary! The proof that his brother did want this, no matter how much he protested. John had been wrong. Sometimes people had to be forced to their luck!

Sherlock sucked harder, and the moan that escaped his brother's mouth was music to his ears. He would burn his Stradivarius and only listen to this tone if he ever had to make a choice.

“Sherlock…?”

Oh, damn… Sherlock took out the spray and made his brother go pliant again.

He sucked him a minute longer, pleasuring some more delicious drops out of him, before he turned to explore his fuzzy balls, and Mycroft seemed to like that just as much. When he woke up from his daze again, Sherlock sprayed him some more. And then some more. He couldn’t stop now. He was rubbing himself through his trousers and pants, reluctantly without freeing his cock, because he didn’t want to mess this moment up, quite literally. And then Mycroft came with a chocked groan, spilling over his tongue, and Sherlock gagged just for a moment before swallowing the generous amount of stickiness down, savouring his success, memorising the taste and the texture, and finally he pulled back.

“That was good, wasn’t it? Mycroft? Mycroft!” He shot up and shook his brother's shoulders.

His head had dropped to one side, his eyes were closed. He had passed out, probably when he had climaxed, passed out by an overdose of the spray. Sherlock hectically searched for a pulse, and almost fell onto his knees in relief when it was there, slow but rather steady.

“You stay here! I'll get some cold water!” he said, stupidly as Mycroft couldn’t hear him. Then he hurried out of the living room to look for a cloth in the bathroom three doors down the hallway.

He had wrung out the wet cloth and was about to return when he realised that a) Mycroft was still sitting there with his cock out and b) he had left the spray on the floor next to him.

Panicking, he ran back to the living room – and saw Mycroft sitting up on the couch, his face a mask of confusion. “Sherlock… What… What happened? Why…” He was pale like a ghost and Sherlock assumed so was he. The cloth had dropped from his hand and hit the floor with the noise of a dead fish, as dead as Sherlock would probably soon be.

“Um. You didn’t feel well so I thought I get some water for you.”

“Good. Makes sense. But this…,” Mycroft pointed at his open trousers, “this doesn’t. And there is… semen on my pants… What have you done?” He finally tucked himself away and got up, and his legs were shaky.

“I…” Sherlock broke off. There was nothing to say. No excuse. Why hadn't he listened to John? Just once?

“You… took advantage of me.”

And Sherlock dropped into defence modus. “Oh, you liked it!”

Mycroft wasn’t even listening. “You did this before! Many times! I thought I was going mental! Forgetting what had just happened. How…” And then he discovered the can on the floor and picked it up. “With this? What is this?”

There wasn’t much point in lying anymore. “My invention. It forces people to tell the truth. So I know that you're in love with me.”

“But it does a bit more, doesn’t it? It makes people do what you want, and then they forget what they did.” He tossed the can back onto the floor.

“They're just going with the flow…” Sherlock mumbled.

“This is how you solved the cases with the traitor and the dominatrix.”

“It brought us Moriarty!”

Mycroft slumped back onto the couch. “I see that it's very useful. You can solve your cases without any problem. But why did you do that to me? Was it nice to humiliate me? Make me your spineless puppet?”

“It wasn’t like that! You were talking about the man you can't have and I asked you who it is and you said it's me. But it's not true! You can have me!”

“Oh God… Yes, for you to play with me until you've got anything you want out of me, and then you'll drop me and go off to the next experiment…”

“No. It's not like this. I… I love you, Mycroft.” And only when he spoke it out he realised how true it was. He might have been reckless and nasty to his brother, but he did love him.

Mycroft shook his head, his face a grimace of hurt. “You don't love anybody but your own cleverness. Go now.”

“No. Won't. Let's just pretend this didn’t happen. Let's just talk and figure out how we can do this without anybody getting it. Well, John will. He found out what I did to you.”

“Oh, great. And you can't be serious. This is nothing but one of your cruel games and I won't participate in it any longer.”

Sherlock felt like fainting. It couldn’t end like this before it had really begun! His brother couldn’t just kick him out of his life! And then he had an idea. “Use it!”

Mycroft gave him a tired look. “What?”

“The spray!” Sherlock darted forward and picked up the little can. “Use it on me, and you'll find out what I really feel for you. I can't lie under the influence.”

His brother seemed to consider that for a moment before he shook his head. “You may be immune to it.”

“Nobody is. Not even you with your giant brain. Not even cunning Irene Adler. Don't you think she would have refused giving her boss a reason to kill her if she'd had a chance? It will work.” He made a step towards his brother. “Do it. I'm sorry for what I did. I did it because… I just felt you would never be willing to let it happen and for the worst of reasons – what others might think.”

Mycroft snorted. “That's not quite it. It's forbidden by law! And Mummy…”

“I don't give a fuck for the law, and our parents, damn, they will never know about it! Nobody will, except for John, and he will never betray me. Please. Please just do this.” He closed the distance between them, sat down and offered his brother the can. “Please. You will know I'm telling the truth. Just spray and ask me whatever you want, and then spray again, and repeat it until you heard everything you need to hear.” He had never used the substance on himself, and in this moment he wondered why. He would gladly pass out too if Mycroft just got from him what he needed to give him a chance.

And finally Mycroft took it, and Sherlock closed his eyes.

*****

Mycroft knew he should refuse this insanity. Should tell Sherlock again to leave him alone. This was madness. Sherlock had done something horrible to him, which had only come out by accident, and now he had the balls to ask him for giving him another chance!

He really shouldn’t give in.

But… he loved him. And Sherlock had said he loved him, too. He had never even dared dream of hearing those words, and he desperately wanted to believe him.

And finally he did what Sherlock wanted, and sprayed the neutral smelling substance into his beautiful but troubled face.

 _Fwsshhh! “_ Is it true, Sherlock? Do you really love me?” _Fwsshhh!_

“Yes. I love you, and not just like a brother.” Sherlock sounded different. His voice was rather flat. Was he just pretending?

“How did that happen?”

“We spent time together, and I had loved you for so long as a brother even though I had chosen to forget it. And you are just awesome. Not just smart. You're funny, and beautiful, and I want you.”

 _My God…_ But still… Could he be sure?

He sprayed again so Sherlock would stay in trance, if he really was. “Do you… want to make love to me?”

“Oh God, yes. I want to suck your cock and lick your arse and have you in me and be in you. I'm dying for it.” Sherlock was licking his lips and it didn’t look deliberate.

Mycroft was speechless for a moment. “How can I be sure that's true?”

“Why would I lie, brother? What do I have to gain from it?”

Nothing. He clearly had nothing to gain from it.

It was true.

*****

When Sherlock returned to reality, everything was a blur. It took him a few seconds to realise even where he was. But then he saw Mycroft's face, and he recalled what had happened before he had been sprayed. His brother didn’t look angry and hurt anymore. He looked shaken and shocked but also very touched.

“You love me,” he said in a tone full of wonder.

“I do,” Sherlock said. “I'm the worst brat on earth and you might want to spank me and you can. But I love you. I loved you when I was a little boy and you my big brother, and I love you now that we're both adults and know our own minds. It's nobody business but ours what we do, Mycroft. We can trust John. I trust him with my life.”

“Lestrade…”

“We will see if we can let him in on this, too. John will know. It will be just fine. I swear. And I will never ever use this on you again.”

“I _will_ spank you if you do…”

Sherlock liked this tone. He liked it a lot. And somehow he liked this whole spanking idea, too, which was pretty disturbing actually, but still... “That I won't do _that_ doesn’t mean I won't be bratty in other ways.”

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “And bratty boys get spanked? Is that what you want?”

Sherlock, still being hardly able to believe his luck, winked at him. “Use the spray and find out.”

“No, brother mine. If we really give this a go, it will all be about _conscious_ honesty and conversation.”

“Agreed. And sex? What about sex?”

Mycroft looked at him, shaking in head in disbelief. “You seriously want this? Touching my overweight body?”

“You're not overweight at all!”

“Ah, thus the diet jokes…”

Sherlock shrugged. “I never denied I'm a menace. But I'm _your_ menace if you want me.”

Mycroft stared at him for a long time before he nodded. “I do. God help me, but I do.”

And then they moved forward on cue and kissed for the very first time with both men having a clear mind, as clear as it could be in a situation that promised to turn their lives upside down.

The kiss was tender, and caring, and grew passionate eventually, and Sherlock could have gone on doing it forever. This kiss felt different, and not only because Mycroft allowed himself to get lost in it with his full knowledge. It just felt… righter.

Finally Mycroft pulled back. “Would you like to go upstairs?”

Sherlock nodded so hard that his teeth clacked together. “Yes!”

Mycroft scrutinised him. “I really shouldn’t reward you for being so horrible though…”

Sherlock grimaced. He knew he deserved this, even if it was not meant entirely seriously. “You could just thrash me beforehand if you think that will make you feel any better about it.”

“What is it with this spanking business? I never thought you're the masochist type!”

“It never occurred to me either. But… I want to do it all with you. Everything.”

Mycroft smiled. “That's very interesting to know. But right now I think we should stay on the nice side.”

“I'll be so nice to you that you can't bear it!”

Mycroft grinned about his eagerness before he cupped Sherlock's cheek. “I'm not entirely sure this is really happening. I did dream of it last night, you know?”

“Oh. It came through. But before today, we just kissed. And… I touched you. And… Yeah, I made you touch me, too…”

“Yes, that matches what I dreamt. But today you went even further…”

“I did. I couldn’t think of anything else anymore. And I loved to suck you. By the way – you owe me an orgasm.”

“I owe you a…” Mycroft broke off, and suddenly grinned. “You're so manipulative!”

Sherlock was feeling crazily happy. “We're the Holmes brothers. 'Manipulative' is our middle name.”

“That wouldn’t make our names any worse, would it? Anyway…”

“Yes. Let's go upstairs and let me be the nicest menace of a baby brother you can imagine.”

“You know – this 'baby brother' talk does still make me feel a tad uncomfortable…” More than a tad, judging by his tone.

Sherlock grabbed his shoulder. “It doesn’t have to. If I didn’t just prove how seriously I want to get into your pants, I don't know what else I should do. I want this. I want you. And no matter how it looked – this is not just me experimenting. This is ghastly sentiment!”

And finally Mycroft took his hand and guided him to his bedroom.

*****

Things got nice indeed. They got so nice that even Sherlock wasn't entirely sure they were really happening.

There was so much delicious bare skin. There were freckles to be kissed, nipples to be sucked, body hair to be pulled at with increasingly swollen lips. Hands were exploring every inch of long-limbed bodies, spit-wet fingers were carefully inserted into places very few brothers got to know about the other one. There were unknown scents and fluids and musk and sharp teeth on tender skin. There were pert arses and hard cocks and soft balls.

Sherlock got his orgasm way quicker than he had wanted to; he just couldn’t last any longer when Mycroft had just started to seriously suck him, but Mycroft, wiping his mouth, assured him that this sudden response was perfectly normal for a first time, and they went on touching and stroking and kissing until Sherlock was almost a hundred percent sure that he had caressed every remaining doubt about his feelings out of his brother's notoriously doubtful brain.

When Mycroft had climaxed for the second time this evening, this time fully able to enjoy it with all his senses, they lay together, their legs entwined, Sherlock's hand on Mycroft's hairy chest, feeling the beat of his still racing heart.

“You don't regret it, do you?” the younger man asked, pretty sure about the answer but eager to show that he did pay attention to what Mycroft was thinking. Now.

“No, little brother. And… as morally questionable and frankly indecent your ways with me were before… I have to admit you had a point. I would have not consented to this otherwise. I wouldn’t have believed you're really serious about it without your fancy invention.”

Sherlock smiled, feeling more than a bit relieved by his brother's absolution. “Told you. You're just a stubbornly decent borer and we'll get nowhere if I don't take care of things.”

“Careful, little brother.” But Sherlock could hear the smile in Mycroft's voice. “What are you planning to do with this substance?”

“Hm. Nothing actually. Probably use it if convenient for a case. You want to have it,” he concluded.

“It's a very interesting means. But it should be handled very discreetly indeed, with human rights and all this, in your eyes, nonsense.”

“Leave it with me. And if you think it has to be used for a case of yours, tell me and I'll take care of the matter in a way nobody gets to know about it.” Since John knew about it already, that would be easier than before. And he doubted very much that John cared about using it on criminals.

“That's a deal I can live with. You could have sold it to really evil people and get horrendously rich.”

Sherlock kissed his throat. “I'm already rich enough. And I don't like really evil people. I might resemble a devil sometimes, but I'm not on his side.”

“No. You're on the side of the angels, little brother.”

“Mm-mm. And I'm in the arms of archangel Mycroft.”

“He's the mightiest.”

“And the most hung.”

Mycroft laughed. “I've loved you forever, Sherlock,” he said then, serious again. “My love eventually changed. I still loved my little brother, but I grew into loving the young man. And I felt very guilty.”

“I know. You told me. _'Sherlock, I love you but we can't do it!'_ ” Sherlock whined in a high-pitched tone.

“You brat!” Mycroft slapped his arse, hard, and Sherlock yelped in delight. Mycroft squeezed his stinging globe. “You really get off on that, don't you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock smirked. “Imagine – whenever I annoy you, like appearing somewhere in a sheet, you can bend me over and give me a hiding. And you've just proven that you like to do that…” He wrapped his hand around Mycroft's cock, which had started to move again.

“Truly interesting times are awaiting us, huh?” Mycroft kissed his forehead.

“Very. I love you, big brother. And that's the truth.”

“I love you, too. What do you think – shall we be nice to each other again?”

“Oh yes. I'd like that very much.”

They kissed again, their hands starting their exploration tours once more, and Sherlock, feeling so sentimental all at once and not minding it at all, thought that his invention had made him very rich already, and the currency was his brother's love, care and big cock, and he knew he would never get enough of any of these.

The End


End file.
